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jua i\k /r?<~fe ^ ?* 



BURNS' 
POETICAL WORKS. 



9~ 




ROBERT BURNS, 



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I 



POETICAL WORKS 



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ROBERT BURNS. 



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LONDON: 
PUBLISHED BY NEWMAN & CO 
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* 



DEDICATION. 

TO 

THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

OF THE 

CALEDONIAN HUNT. 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 
A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest 
ambition is to sing in his Country's service— where shall 
he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious 
names of his native land ; those who bear the honours 
and inherit the virtues of their ancestors ? The Poetic 
Genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard 
Elijah did Elisha— at the plough, and threw her inspiring 
mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the rural 
scenes, and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
native tongue : I tuned my wild, artless notes as she 
Inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient 
Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under your 
honoured protection ; I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not 
approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual 
style of dedication, to thank you for past favours : that 
path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that honest 
rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this address 



X DEDICATION. 

with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a con- 
tinuation of those favours : I was bred to the plough, 
and am independent. I come to claim the common 
Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; 
and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to 
congratulate my country, that the blood of her ancient 
heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your 
courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect 
protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I 
come to proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Fountain 
of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your wel-. 
fare and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the echoes in the ancient 
and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may 
Pleasure ever be of your party ; and may Social Joy 
await your return ! when harassed in courts or camps, 
with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the 
honest consciousness of injured Worth attend your 
return to your native seats ; and may Domestic Happi- 
ness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates ! 
May Corruption shrink at your kindling, indignant 
glance ! and maylyranny in the Ruler, and licentious- 
ness in the People, equally find you an inexorable foe ! 

I have the honour to be, 
With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 

Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. 



CONTENTS. 



PAG'i. 

The Tvva Dogs, a Talc • j I7 

Scotch Drink , . 24 

The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer 5 28 

The Holy Fair . . 54 

Death and Doctor Hornbook . ? 42 

The death and dying words of Poor Mailie 47 

Poor Mailie's Elegy , ,50 

To James Smith, Mauchline . 51 

Address to the DeU - , 56 

A Dream . . f,o 

Address to the Unco Gude s ., 65 

Tarn Samson's Elegy « . 67 

The Farmer's salutation to his auld Mare , 70 

A Winter Night . : 74 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet . . 77 

The Lament s . 82 

The Cotter's Saturday night : t 84 

A Prayer in the prospect of Death , 91 

Verses left at a Friend's House , ,92 

The First Psalm . ? 55 
A Prayer under the Pressure of violent Anguish § lb. 



xn 



0QH1EJKT& 



pag£; 

The first Six Verses of the nineteenth psalm 94 

To a Mountain daisy 9 95 

To Ruin 9 » 97 

To Miss Logan - ,98 

Epistle to a Young Friend » ib. 

On a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies • 101 

Halloween , » 103 

Man was made to mourn, a Dirge , , Hi 

To a Haggis . 113 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq, , 115 

Address to Edinburgh . , 119 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard % 121 

To William Simpson, Ochiltree . 125 
Epistle to John Rankine, enclosing some Poems « 151 

Written in Friar's Carse Hermitage, on Nithside 154 

Ode, Sacred to the memory of Mrs. — , of — . 156 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson • 157 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots , , 111 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintra % 145 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . 116 
To Sir John Whitefoord^ with the foregoing Poem 148 

On seeing a wounded hare limp by me , 149 

Address to the Shade of Thompson • ib. 

On the late Captain Grose's peregrinations s 150 

To Miss Cruikshanks, a very young lady , 152 

Tan; o' Shanter, a Tale . . 155 

On the Death of John M'Leod, Esq. » 160 

The humble petition of Bruar Water . 161 

Written in the Inn at Kenmure, Taymouth 164 

WriUen at the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness . 165 



CONCERTS, 



Xiii 



On the Birth of a Posthumous Child , 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 
Lines on an Interview with Lord Daer » 
On the Death of a Lap Dog, named Echo 
Inscription to the memory of Fergusson c 
To Dr. Blacklock . , 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo 
The Rights of Woman . 9 

Verses to a Young Lady t « 

Verses addressed to a Lady • 

Address to Mr. William Tytler • 

Poem on Pasforal Poetry s 

Sketch — New Year's Day • • 

Answer to a Mandate • • 

To a Young Lady . 9 

Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell , 
Sent to a gentleman whom he had offended . 
Poem on Li fe • , 

Address to the Tooth- ache • 9 

Holy Willie's Prayer . * « • 

Epitaph on Holy Willie * . , 

To Mrs. Dunlop, on Sensibility , , 

Sonnet on hearing a Thrush . . 

"To the Guidwife of Wauehope House , 

Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddel, Esq. 
I On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair • 

I Lines presented to an old Sweetheart then married 

J" Extempore The Invitation # 

— — Written in a Lady's Pocket bo&k 
' tines oil Miss J. Scott ; of Ayr 3 $ 



AGE. 

ib; 
166 
168 
169 
170 

ib. 
172 
173 
175 

ib, 
176 
178 
179 
181 
183 
184 
185 

ib, 
187 
188 
191 
192 

ib. 
193 
196 

ib. 
198 

ib. 
199 

ib/ 



X1Y 



CONTENTS, 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, &p. 

On a celebrated Ruling Elder . , 1 99 

On a noisy Polemic . « ib. 

On Wee Johnny • . ; 200 

On the Author's Father , . ib. 

On Robert Aikeu, Esq. . a ib. 

On Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . ■ ib. 

A Bard's Epitaph . . • 201 

On John Dove . . • 202 

On a Friend . . . ib. 

On a Wag in Mauchline . ? ib. 

The Henpeck'd Husband . . 203 

A Grace before Dinner , . * ib - 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 

The Jolly Beggars * : 

The Rigs o' Barley » g 

Green Grow the Rashes I 

Again rejoicing Nature sees 5 s 

From thee, Eliza, I must go 5 

Highland Mary 5 • t 

Auld Rob Morris * y 

Duncan Gray * % i 

Galla Water § f 

J£*go' the Milt + i 

9 Logan, sweetly didst thou gli4e $ 



204 
21C 
217 
218 
219 
220 
221 
222 
223 
ib, 
2H 



CONTENTS, XV 

PAGE. 

The Lea Rig , } . 225 

Wandering Willie T . , .226 

Whistle and I'll come to you, my Lad . 227 

Aulc! Lang Syne v . ( , • ib. 

Robert Brucefc Address at Bannockburn . 228 

She says she lo'es me best of a' „ 229 

For a' that and a' that m , . t 250 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet - . 232 

Her Answer. — O tell na me o' wind and rain ib. 

Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher , . 235 

The Birksof Aberfeldy » . 234 

Blithe was she . . • 235 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves . 256 

Of a' the aiits the wind can blaw « . 237 

Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maut £ ib. 

Tarn Glen . ," , ' 238 

What can a young Lassie do wi' an auld Man t 239 

O, for ane-an'-twenty, Tarn . ,210 

The Banks o' Doon , , ib. 

Sic a Wife as Willie had , i 241 

Wilt thou be my Dearie? , t 242 

She's fair and fause , s 9 .243 

The red, red rose f , ib. 

Song of Death . * t ; 244 

To Mary in Heaven . , 245 

Naebody . ' % i 246 

To Mary < , , ib, 

fconnie Lesley I $ I 247 

Bonnie Jean c j 248 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day . 24? 



ST j CONTENTS. 

Fait Jenny * 5 

John Anderson my jo 
A Rosebud by my early walk 
I married with • 

Fair Eliza • * 

The Parting Kiss t 

Lord Gregory . » 

Clarinda * 






POEMS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 
THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

*Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o'Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro* the afternoon, 
Twa dags, that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride — nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Wi' ony tinkler gipsy's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though o'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him, 
6 



burns' poems. 






The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luaih ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang, 
Was made lang syne — L — d knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o* glossy black : 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
And unco pack and thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, 
"Whiles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whiles scour'd awa in long excursion, 
And worried ither in diversion ; 
TJnti wi' damn weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lords o' the Creation* 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you haye : 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents. 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; 
He rises when he likes himsel* ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 



BUBNS' POEMS. 1& 

He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 

He draws a bonny silken purse, 

As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, 

The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
And though the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trash trie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man, 
His honour has in a' the Ian' ; 
And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whiles they're fash't eneugh; 

A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, 

Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 

Baring a quarry, and sic like : 

Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o' wee duddy weans, 

An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 

Them right and tight in thack and rape. 

An, when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer 
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger 
But how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
And buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



20 burns' poems, 

CJ3SAR. 

But then, to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huiFd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit ; 
L— d man ! our gentry care sae little 
For delvers, ditchers, an* sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinkin' brock. 

I've noticed, on our Laird's court day 
An* mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
And bear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Though constantly on poortith's brink ; 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gie's them little fright. 
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigued wi" close enploymenr, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment, 
The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 
And whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 



BtJftNS' POEMS. 2t 

They'll talk o' patronage an 1 priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac' Hollowmas returns 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' every station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an* social Mirth 
Forgets there's care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The lunting pipe, and sneeshing mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The scanty auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' through the house. — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre often play'd. 
There's mony a creditable stock 
0' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench. 
Wha thinks to knit himseF the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin, 
For Britain's gude his saul indenting 

CESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it 
Say rather gaun ! as Premiers lead him, 
And saying, ay or no's they bid him ! 



22 BARNS' POEMS. 

At operas and plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading, 
Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais take a waft, 
To mak' a tour and tak' a whirl, 
To learn Ion ton and see the warl 5 , 

There at Yienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the route, 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowte ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh — re hunting amang groves o' myrtles 
Then bouses drumlie German water, 
To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love — gifts of carnival signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

Ltjath. 
Hech, man ! dear sir3 ! is that the gate, 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten and harrass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at iast ! 

wad they stay aback frae courts, 
And please themsels wi' countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The laird, the tenant, and the cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin, rambling billies, 
Fient haet of them's ill hearted fellows, 
Except for breaking o' their timmer, 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shooting o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 



BUBNS' POEMS, 23 

But will ye tell me, Maister Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life of pleasure ! 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o'fc need na fear them. 

C,ESAR. 

L— d, man ; were ye but whiles where I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
And fill auld age wi' grips an 1 granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themsel's to vex them, 
And aye the less they hae to sturt tham, 
In like proportion less will hurt them : 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country lassie at her wheel, 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel ; 
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, 
Wi' e'endown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy, 
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy; 
Their day3 insipid, dull and tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang and restless: 
And e'en their sports, their balls and races, 
Their galloping through public places ; 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a* in deep debauches i 



% 2£ BURNS* POEMS. 

Ae night, they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, 
Neist daj their life is past enduring. 

The ladies arm-inarm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a* run de'ils an' jades thegither, 
Whyles owre the wee bit cup an* platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 
There's some exception, man and woman : 
But this is gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight, 
And darker gloaming brought the night ; 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat and shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were nae men, but dogs: 
And each took off his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink ! 
Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink, 



BUHNS* POEMtf. 2£ 

Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' peas an* beans, at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumbling in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef ! 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shine3 chief. 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin' ; 
Tho* life's a gift no worth receiving 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin' ; 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down hill, scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin glee. 
Thou clears the head o' doited Lair ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves- o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ! 
Thou even brightens dark Despair, 

Wi' gloomy smile. 
Aft, clad in massy, silver weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head, 
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine ; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 



26 burns' pokms, 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants 1 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspired, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly tired. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
sweetly then thou ream3 the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a new year mornin', 

In cog or bicker. 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in. 

And gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gi'es his bellows breath, 
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
rare ! to see thee fizz and freath 

I' the luggit caup ! 
Then Burnewin comes on like death 

At ev'ry chaup, 

Nae mercy then for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin' weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight,* 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gits a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neibors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 



BURNS' POEMS, 27 

How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barreL 
Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; 
For monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'en spier her price. 
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an* brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash, 

0' half his days ; 
An' sends, besides, auld Scotland's cash 

To her worst faes. 
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 
May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An* gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

0' sour disdain, 
Out-owre a glaR3 o' whisky punch, 

Wi' honest men. 
whisky ! soul of plays and pranks ! 
1 Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes — they rattle i' the ranks 

At ither's a— s ? * 



28 BURNS* POEMS. 

Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost J 
Scotland lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast, 

Is ta'en awa' ! 
Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies, 

For poor d— n'd drinkers. 
Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill, 
And rowth o' rhyme to rave at; will, 

Tak' a' the rest, 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best, 



TftE author's 
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER, 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF 
CQMMONS. 
** Dearest of Distillation ? last and best— 
How art thou lost ! — " 

Parody on Milton. 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, 
Wha represent our burghs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In Parliament, 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent, 



burns' poems. 29 

Alas ! my roupet muse is hearse ! 

Your Honours' heart3 wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sitting on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
And scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction, 

On Aqua-vitse ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 

The honest, open, naked truth ; 

Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! * 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ! 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb : 
Let posts and pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come, 

Tar better want 'em. 

In gath'rin votes you were nae slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, and fid#e your back, 

An' hum and haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

i Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissel, 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ,• 



30 BURNS* POBK6. 

And d— —d Excisemen in a bussel, 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant, crushin't like a mussel, 

Or lampit shell. 
Then, on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler right behint her, 
And cheek-forchow, a chuffie vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter, 

Of a' kind coin. 
Is there that bears the name o* Scot, 
But feels his heart's blude rising hot, 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An* plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 
Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trod i' the mire clean out o' sight ; 
But could I like Montgom'ries fight, 

Or gab like Bos well, 
There's some sark necks I wad draw tight, 

And tie some hose well. 
God bless your honours ! can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it. 
Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' St. Stephen's wa's, 

Auld Scotland's wrangs, 



burns' poems. 31 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I's warran' ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; 
An' that glib gabbet Highland baron, 

The Laird o' Graham ; 
An' ane, a chap that's d— n'd auld farran, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 
True Campbells, Frederick, an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie, 

An* monie it hers, 
Wham auld DemostheDes or Tally 

Might own for brithers. 

Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, 

If bardies e'er are represented ; 

I ken if that your sword were wanted, 

Ye'd lend your hand : 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 

Arouse, my boys ; exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith, I'll wad my new pleugh- petti e, 

You'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang, 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid : 
(Deil na they never mair do good,) 

Play'd her that pliskie ( 
An' now she's like to run red wud 

About her whiskey. 

An', L— d, if ance they put her tili% 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 



■ 



32 BUENS' POEMs, 

An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt 

!• th' fint she meets ! 
For G— d sake, sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle House repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi* a* your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 
Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks]; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ! 
An* send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin lady. 
Tell you guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 
Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in gude braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach, 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promised auld or young 

To tak' their part, 
Though by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert, 



BUKNS' ^OfiMS. 33 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and- forty, 
May still your mither's heart support ye 
Then, though a minister grow dorty, 

An* kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an* hearty, 

Before his face. 
God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' soups o' kail an* brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble poet sings an* prays, 

While Eab his name is. 

POSTCKIPT. 
Let half- starved slaves in warmer skies, 
See future wines, rich clust'ring rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But, blythe an' frisky, 
She eyes her free-born, martial boys 

Tak' aff their whisky. 
What though their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in famished swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 
Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thoughts a hankering swither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a thro'thcr, 

To save their skin. 
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 




34 BURHS' POEMS. 

Say, sic is royal George's will. 

An* there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him 
Death comes — wi' fearless e'e he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gi'es him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o'breathin' leaves him 

In faint huzzas. 
Sages their solemn e'en may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An* physically causes seek, 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 
Sccotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Though whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till where ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and Whiskey gang thegither !— 

Tak aff your dram ! 

THE HOLY FAIR. 

A robe of seeming truth and trust, 

Hid crafty observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation ; 
A mask that like the gorget show'd 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 
He wrapt him in religion. 

Hypocriy-a-la-mode, 
UroN a simmer Sunday morn, 
When Nature's face was fair, 



BURNS POEMS. 

I walked forth to view the corn, 

And snuff the caller air : 
The rising sun o'er Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin'; 
The hares were hirpling down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin', 
Fa' sweet that day. 

As lightsornely I glowVd abroad, 

To see a scene so gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the way : 
Twa had manteeles o' doleful black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining : 
The third, that gaed a- wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 
Fu' gay that day. 
The twa appeared lika sisters twin, 

In feature, form, and claes : 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, and thin, 

And sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-stap-and-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a kurchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonny face, 

But yet I canna name ye.' 
Quo' she, and laughing as she spak, 

An' takes me by the hands, 
' Ye for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a* the Ten Commands. 

A screed some day, 



3$ . burns' poems. 

' My name is Fun— your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae, 
And this is Superstition here, 

And that Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in damn : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 
At them this day/ 

Quoth I, ' Wi' a 5 my heart, I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin' !' 
Then I gaed hame at crowd ie time, 

And soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a weary bod7, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in riding graith, 

Gaed hoddin' by their cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid claith. 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls, baked wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, » 

Weel heapit up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glow'r Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On every side they're gatherin, 



burns' poems. 37 

Some carrying dails, some chairs and stools, 

An' some were busy bleth'rin' 
Right loud that day. 
Here stands a shed to fend the showr's, 

An' screen our countra gentry, 
There racer Jess, an' twa three wh-res, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw o' tittlin' jades, 

Wi* heaving breast an* bare neck, 
An' there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguardin'. fae Kilmarnock, 
For fun this day. 
Here, some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An' some upon' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, 

Anither sighs and prays ; 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that, a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 
To chairs that day. 
O, happy is that man, an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him, 
Wi arm reposed on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him, 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 
Now a' the congregation o'er 

In silent expectation ; 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o* d-imvtn. 



Z$ burns' poems. 

Should Hornie, as in ancient days* 

'Mang sons o' G — d present him, 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face 

To's ain het hame had sent him, 
Wi' fright that day. 
Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' rattlin' an' wi' thumpin' ; 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin' an' he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh ! how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 
On sic a day ! 
But hark ! the -tent has changed its voice ! 

There's peace and rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 
A lift that day. 
What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason 1 
His Euglish style an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out of season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 
In guid time comes the antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 



burns' poems. 3 

For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — d, 

An' meek and mim has view'd it, 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

And aff, and up the Cowgate, 
Fast, fast that day. 

Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves, 

An* orthodoxy raibles, 
Though in his heart he weel believes, 

An' thinks it auld wife's fables ; 
But faith ! the birkie wants a manse, 

So cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him, 
At times that day. 
Now but and an' the change house fills, 

Wi' yill caup commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint stowp clatters : 
While thick and thrang, an' loud and lang, 

Wi' logic and wi' scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

0' wrath that day. 
Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college, 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fu' o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 



40 BUENS* POEMS. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent, 

To mind baith saul an* body, 
Sit round the table, weel content, 

And steer about the toddy. 
On this ane v s dress, an* that ane'a leuk, 

They're making observations : 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An^formin' assignations, 

To meet some day. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black Russel is na spairin'; 
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, 

Divide the joints an' marrow; 
His talk o' H-ll, whar devils dwell, 

Our vera 'sauls does harrow/ 
Wi' fright that day, 

A vast unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fiil'd fu' o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin', 
When presently it does appear. 

'Ttvas but some neighbour snorin*, 
Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
And how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the forms an* benches, 



BURNS* POEMS, 41 

An* cheese an* bread, frae women's laps, 
Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

And sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an* her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace, 

From side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gies them't like a tether, 
Fu* lang that day. 

VVaesuck's ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindful ance yoursel, 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
And dinna, for a kebbuck heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 
On sic a day. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi* rattlin' tow 

Begins to jow an' croon; 
Some swagger hame the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lassies strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts, 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
.Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, 

As saft as ony flesh is. 






42 B puns' poems. 

There's some are fou o' love divine ,• 
There's some are fou o' brandy ; 

An' monie jobs that day begin, 
May end in houghmagandie 
Some ither day. 

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd : 
Ev'n ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times to vend, 

And naiPt wi' Scripture. 
But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befel, 
Is just as true's the Deii's in h — 1, 

Or Dublin city; 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel' 

'S a muckle pity. 
The clachan yiil had made me canty, 
I was na fou, but just had plenty : 
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches : 
An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists and witches. 
The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre; 
To count her horns wi' a' my power, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I couldna tell. 
I was come round about the hill, 
And toddlin' down on Willie's Mill, 



burns' poems, 43 

Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me siccar ; 
Though leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 
I there wi' something did forgather, 
That put me in an eerie swither ; 
An* awfui' sythe out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear dangling hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the tither 

Lay, large and lang. 
It's stature seein'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ; 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma', 

As cheeks o' branks ! 
1 Gudee'en,' quo' I; 'friend ! ha'yebe'n mawin, 
When ither folk are busy sawin?' 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, 'friend ! whare ye gaun ? 

Will ye go back V 
It spak right howe : — 'My name is Death— 
But be na fley'd'— Quo' I, ' Guide faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stop my breath ; 

But tent me billie ; 
I red you weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully !' 
f Gudeman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittle, 
I'm no designed to try its mettle ! 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wadna mind it, no that spittle ; 

Out-owre my beard.' 






44 BURNS' POEMS. 






1 Weel, weel,' said I, ' a bargain be'fc ; 
Come, gie's your hand, and say we'r gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come, gie's your news ; 
This while ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house.' 

' Ay, ay !' quo' he, and shook his head, 
1 It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed, 
Sin' i began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

And sae maun Death. 

1 Sax thousand years are near hand fled, 
Sin' I was to the butch'ring bred, 
And mony a scheme in vain's been laid 

To stap and scaur me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade, 

And faith, he'll waur me. 

1 Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan' 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown see weel acquaint wi 1 Buchan 

And ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers, laughin' 

And pouk my hips. 

1 See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierced mony a gallant heart : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith nae worth a f— t, 

D— n'd haet they'll kill. 

1 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, 
I threw a noble dart at ane ; 



BURNS' POE&S, 45 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But deil ma care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 
' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortify'd the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad ha'e pierc'd the heart 

0' a kail- runt, 
' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ! 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 
4 EVn them he canna get attended, 
Although their face he ne'er had kennM it, 
Just in a kail-blade and send it ; 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At ance he tells't. 
* And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A, B, C. 
1 Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina o' beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fortis, what you please, 

I He can content ye. 



4:6 burns' poems. 

6 Forbye some new uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus o' capons ; 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And monie mae.' 
' Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,' 
Quoth I, ' if that thae news be true ! 
His braw calf-yard, whare go wans grew 

Sae white and bonny, 
Nae douVt they'll rive it wi' the plew : 

They'll ruin Jonny ! 
The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, ' Ye needna yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be tili'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh, 

In twa-three year. 
1 Where I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By losso' blood, or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill, 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 
'An honest wabster to his trade, 
Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred 
Gat tippence-tf orth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair, 
1 A countra laird had ta"en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts ; 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well : 



BtfBNS' POEMS, 47 

' The lad for twa gude gimmer pets, 

Was laird himselV 
' A bonny lass, ye kenn'd her name, 
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame, 
She trusts herseF, to hide her shame, 

In Hornbopk's care : 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there, 
1 That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 

Wi' his d — d' dirt : 
' But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self- conceited sot, 

As dead's a herrin ;' 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin' !' 
But ju3t as he began to tell, 
The auld kirk-hammer struck the bell, 
Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baifch : 
I took the way that pleased mysel', 

And sae did Death. 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF 
POOE MAILIE. 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET JTOWE. 

An unco mourn fib* Tale. 
As Mailie an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 



48 BURNS' POEMS. 

Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An owre she warsl'd in the ditch ; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he came doiting by* 
Wi glowrin een, an' lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he cou'dna mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak — 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

* thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear ; 
Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O ! bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca* them out to park or hill, 
An* let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 

< Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An* aye was good to me an' mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs 1 now trust wi' him. 

( O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
And tent them duly, e'en and morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay, an' rips o' corn. 

' And may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets I 



BUBN&' POEMS. 49 

To slink thro* slaps, an* reave an' steal 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers : 
So wives will gi'e them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

* My poor toop lamb, my son an* heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An' if he live to be a beast, 

To pit some havins in his breast ! 
And warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

' An' neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop, 
But aye keep mind to moop an* mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! 

'And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 
I leave my blessing wi' you baith ; 
An' when ye think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

* Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 

An' bid him burn this cursed tether ! 
An,' for thy pains, thou's get my blather.' 
This said poor Mailie turn'd her head. 
And closed her een amang the dead, 



gt3 burns' poems. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a 1 remead ; 
The last sad capestane of his woes ; 

Poor Maiiie's dead ! 
It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed ; 
He's lost a friend and neibor dear 

In Mailie dead. 
Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faifehfu' ne'er cam nigh him. 

Than Mailie dead. 
I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
And could behave hersel' wi' mense \ 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie'3 dead. 
Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image, in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him owre the knowe, 

For bit3 o' bread ; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 
She was nae get o' muirland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 






.1 



burns' poems, SI 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed : 
A bonnier flesh ne'er cross' d the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 
Wae worth the man wha' first did shape, 
That vile, wanchancie thing, a rape ! 
It mak's guid fellows gim and gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
An' Eobin's bonnet wave wi' crape 

For Mailie dead, 
0, a' ye bards o' bonny Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your canhters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

* 0' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead ! 



TO JAMES SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 
Friendship I mysterious cement of the soul; 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society, 
I owe thee much 1 Blair. 

Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef, 

Owre human hearts; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 
For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you, 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' yon, 



$t BUKN3* POEMS. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak' amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turned you aft, a human creature, 

On her first plan ; 
An* in her freaks, on every feature, 

She's wrote—* The Man.' 
Just now, I've tae'n the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure- moment's time 

To hear what's coming- 
Some rhyme a neibor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash ; 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
Tor me, an aim I never fash — 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

And d— d my fortune to the groat, 

But in requit, 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 
0' countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my luck in gude black prent ; 
But still, the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, ' Hoolie J 
I rede you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

■ There's ither poets much your betters, 
Par seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had insur'd their debtors^ 
A' future &ges ; 



burns' poems. 53 

Now motb3 deform, in shapeless tatter?, 

Their unknown pages.' 
Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lonely heights an' howea 

My rustic sang. 
I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till Fate shall snap the brittle thread 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me wi' the inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 
Bat why, o' Death begin a tale 1 
Just now we're living sound and hale : 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care owreside) 
And large, before Enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 
This life's sae far's 1 understand, 
Is a'enchanted fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 
Dance by fu' light. 

?he magic wand then let ua wield ; 
lor ance that fi ve-and -forty's speel'd. 
>ee, crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
koines ho3tin', hirplin', owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

Then ance life's day draws near the gloaming 
Dhen fareweel vacant careless roamin' : 



54 BURNS' P0EM3. 

An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foaming 

An* social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 

The joy o' joys ! 

Life ! how pleasant is thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near 

Amang the leaves ; 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flowry spot, 

For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 

They drink the sweet and eat the fat, , 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

Wi' high disdain. 

Wi' steady aim, some Fortune ehase ; 
Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observing 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zigzag on ; 
'Till curst wi J age, obscure and starvin,' 

They aften groan, 




burns' poems. £># 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining !^» 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is Fortune's'fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 
My pen I here fling to the door, 
And kneel, ■ Ye powers !' and warm implore, 
Though I should wander terra o'er 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye routh o' rhymes. 
i Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards : 
Gie fine braw ciaes to fine life-guards, 

And maids of honour ; 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairda 

Until they sconner. 
' A title, Demster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent ; 
But gie me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 
1 While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
'11 sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.' 
n anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nase ; 
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ! 






$1 burns' poems. 

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 
I rhyme away 

ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compared wi' you — fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 
Your lives, a dyke ! 

Nae hairbrain'd, sentimental traces, 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces, 

Ye never stay, 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum scairum, ramstam boys, 
The rattlin squad ; 

1 see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road. — 
While I — but I shall hand me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where- 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quit my sang, 
Content with you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 




ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

" O Prince, O Chief of many throned powers, 
That led embattled Seraphim to war.".— 

Milton. 

O thou, whatever title suits thee, 
All Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 



BUHNS' POEMS, 55f 

Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 

And let poor d d bodies be, 

I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us equeel ! 
Great is thy power, an' great thy fame, 
Far kenn'd an' noted is thy name ; 
And tho' 3 on l>win heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far : 
And faith, thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur, 
f hyles, ranging like a roaring lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; 
Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin' 

Tiding the kirks ; 
Whyles in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 
lVe heard my rev'rend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray, 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, grey, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 
When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! 
1ft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
)r, rustlin, thro' the boor tries comin/ 

Wi' heavy groan. 



£8 BURNS' POEMS, 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shone down wi' sklentin* light, 

Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 
The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch stoor quaick— quaick— 

Amang the springs, 
Away ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 
Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirkyards renew their leagues 

Qwre howkit dead. 
Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witchin' skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the bill. 
Thence mystic knots mak' great abuse 
On young guidmen, fond, keen, and crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the bit. 
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin' icyboord, 
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction ; 



burns' poems. 59 

An' 'nighted travelers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 
An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is ; 
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 
When masons' mystic word and grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your range maun stop, 

Or strange to tell ! 
The youngest brither ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell ! 
Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
And a' the soul of love they shar'd 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, 

In shady bow'r. 
Then you, ye auld, eneck-drawin* dog ! 
Ye cam' to Pradise incog., 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,, 

(Black be your fa !) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds an' reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie fiz 

'Mang better folk, 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ! 
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak* him out o house an' hall, 



60 . burns' poems. 

While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
And lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scrawl, 

Was warst ava\ 
But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an* fechtin' fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 
An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin' 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner j inkin', 

An' cheat you yet. 
Bat, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aibiins might — I dinna ken- 
Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo* yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 



A DREA.M. 

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with 

reason, 
But surely Dreams were ne'er indited treason. 

[On reading in the public papers, the * LAUREATE'S 
ODE' with the other Parade of June 4, 1786, the 
Author was no sooner dropt asleep than he imagined 
himself transported to the Birth-day Levee; and in 
his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] 

Gqid morning to your Majesty ! 
May Heav'n augment your blisses, 



BURtffe' POEMS. 61 

On every new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth- day dresses, 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By mony a lord an' lady ! 
' God save the king !' 'sa cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

WV rhymes weel turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 
For me, before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter : 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor ; 
Sae, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's mony waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 
Than you this day. 
'lis very true, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may well be doubted ! 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

And downa be disputed ; 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part o' the string, 

An* less will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 



62 BURNS* POEMS. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire, 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted 'ministration 
To chap3, wha' in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gi'en auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ! 
For me, thank G-od ! my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear that, wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I* the craft some day. . 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 
When taxes he enlarges, 
[ (And Will's a true good fallow's get, 
A name not envy spairges.) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, God sake ! let nae saving fit 
Abridge your bonnie barge3 
An' boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege, may freedom geek 
Beneath your high protection ; 

An' may you rax Corruption's neck, 
And gie her for dissection ! 

But since I'm here, I'll no neglect^ 
In loyal, true affection. 



fcUBNS* POEMS. 63 

To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty and subjection 

This great birth- day. 
Hail, Majesty Most excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
"Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye % 
Thae bonny bairntime, Heaven has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 
For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An* curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 
By night or day. 
Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak' a noble aiver : 
Sae, you may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver ; 
There, him at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 

He was an unco shaver 

For mony a day. 
For you, right rev'rend Osnaburgh, 

Nane sets the lawn- sleeve sweeter, 
Although a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 






64 burns' pokms. 

As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys o' Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, troth ! ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 
Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

You've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley, stem an' stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 

And, large upo' her quarter 

Come full that day. 

Ye. lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lassies dainty, 
Heav'n mak ye guid as weel as braw, 

And gie you lads a-plenty ! 
But sneer na British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant aye ; 
An' German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want ay. 
On ony day. 
God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautit ; 
But ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautit ; 
An* I hae seen their coggie fu', 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was down, 1 trow, 

The laggen they hae clautit 

Fu' clean that day. 



BURNS* POEMS, G5 



ADDRESS 

TO THE UNCO GUDE, OR THB RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS, 

. 

My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thegither ; 
The rigid righteous is a fool, 

The rigid wise anither. 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May have some piles o' chaff in ; 
Sae ne'er a fellow creature slight 

For random fits o' dafflin. 

Solomon. — Eccles. vii, 16. 

yb wha are so gude yoursel', 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebor's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi store o' water, 
The heapit happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 
Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Wad here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 
Their failings, and mischances. 
Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What makes the mighty differ 1 
& 



>6 burrs' poems, 

Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop ; 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Eight on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It makes an unco lee- way. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down, 

A' joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmogrif/d, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking ; 
O wad they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before you gi'e poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination 

But let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman, 
Tho' they may gang a kennin' wrang; 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark* 

The moving why they do it j 



burns' poems. 67 

And just as lamely can you mark, 
How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord, its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But ken na what's resistet. 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 

An honest man's the noblest work of God. — Pope. 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil 1 

Or great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel, 
Or Robinson again 'grown weel, 

To preach and read 1 
% Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel, 

* Tarn Samson's dead.' 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane, 
And sigh, and sab, and greet her lane, 
And deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 

In mourning weeds ; 
To death she's dearly paid the kane — 
Tarn Samson's dead. 

The brethren of the mystic level 
May band their heads in waefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tear3 will revel 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gi'en the Lodge an unco devel, 

Ta.m Samson's dead { 



i 



63 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

When Winter muffles up his cloak* 
And binds the mire up like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock 1 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a* the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog score 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately saumont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels, weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish creel we wail 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Eejoice, ye birring paitricks a' 

Ye cootie muircocks, croosely craw ; 

Ye maukins, cock your fuds fu' braw, 

Withoufeen dread, 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

That waefu' morn we ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed, 
But, och ! he gaed, and ne'er return'd, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vahi the gout bis ancles fetters; 



bums' roiiMgf, 69 

In vaiu the burns come down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now every auld wife, greeting, clatters, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 
Owre monie a weary hag he limpit, 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
'Til coward Death behint him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 
When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel aim'd heed ; 
' Lord/five !' he cried, and owre did stagger; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Ilk }.oary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 
Yon auld green stane amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Where Burns has wrote in rhyming blether, 

Tarn Samson's dead. 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave, 

0' pouther and lead ; 
Till Echo answers frae her cave, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



i 



70 BARNS' POEMS. 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mair than me ; 
He had twa fau'ts, or may be three, 

Yet what remead ] 
Ae social honest man want we — 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

THE EPITATH. 
TajI Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 

Ye canting zealots spare him ! 
If honest worth in heaven rise, 

Ye'll mend or ye will near him, 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly, 
Through a' the streets and neuks o' Killie, 
Tell every social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin* ; 
For yet, unscath'd by Death's gleg gullie, 

Tarn Samson's livin' ! 

THE AULD FAKMER'S 

NEW- YEAR'S MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULE 
MARE MAGGIE, 

On giving her the accustomed Rip of Corn to hansel 
in the New Year. 

A oude New Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae ! there's a rip to thy auld baggie ; 
Tho' thou's howe-backifc now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out owre the lay. 
Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 



j 



BUMS 5 P01M& 71 

I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny grey : 
He should been tight that daurt to rake thee 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, and swank, 
And set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er trod yird ; 
And could hae flown out owre a stank 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine- and twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere, 
He gied me thee, a tocher clear, 

And fifty mark : 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel won gear, 

And thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickle, slee, and funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsie : 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie, 

And unco sonsie* 
That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bore hame my bonnie bride ; 
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air : 
Kyle- Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 
Tho* now ye do but hoyte and hobble, 
And wintle like a saumont cobble, 
That day ye was a j inker noble, 

For heels and win', 
A.nd ran them till they a' did wauble 

Far, far behin\ 



72 BUHNS* POEM& 

When thou and I were young and skeigh, 

And stable meals at fairs were dreigh, 

How thou wad prance, and snort, and skreigb, 

And tak the road, 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

And ca't thee mad. 

When thou was cor n't and I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow ; 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith and speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma' drop rumpl't hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waurt thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

And gar't them whaizle ; 
Kae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

Osaugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie Ian' 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn : 

Aft thee and I, in aught hours gaun, 

On gude March weather, 
Has turn'd sax rood beside our han/ 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't and fech'd and fliskit, 
Bat thy auud tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
And spread abreed thy weel filled brisket, 

Wi' pith and power, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risked 

An' sly pet owre. 

When frosts lay lang and snaws were deep, 
And threaten 'd labour back to keep, 



BUHNS' POEMS. IB 

I gied thy cog a wee bit heap, 

Aboon the timrner : 

I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never restit ; 

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 

Thou never lap, and stent', and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw, 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn time a' 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
For bye sax mair, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me threteen pund and twa, 

The very warst. 

Mony a sair daurg we twa hae wrought, 
And wi' the weary warF fought ; 
And mony an anxious day, 1 thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi* something yet. 
And think na, my auld trusty servan,' 
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin, 
And thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid up for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig. 
Where ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue, 



; 



74 BU&m' posms, 



A WINTER NIGHT, 

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides. 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these.— 

When biting Boreas fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r 
When Phoebus gies ashortliv'd glower 

Far south the lift — 
Dim-darkning thro' the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
White burns, wi' snawy wreaths up- choked 

Wild- eddying swirl, 
Or thro 5 the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning the doors and winnocks rattle 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, 

0' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep lairing sprattle 

Beneath a scaur. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ) 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

And close thy e'e ? 



BUBNS' POEMS. 75 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 

Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 

The blood stained roost, and sheep cot spoil'd 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain, 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole— 

1 Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust 1 
And freeze, thou bitter biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Than heav'n-illumin'd Man on brother Man be- 
stows, 

See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 

Sending, like blood- hounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder o'er a land J 

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 

Truth weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper' Luxury, Flattery by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud Property extended wide, 

And eyes the simple, rustic hind, 
Whose toils uphold the glittering show, 

A creature of another kind 

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd 






76* beaks' poems. 

Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile be- 
low 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 
The pow'rs you proudly own ] 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim* 

To bless himself alone ? 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares : 
This boasted honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Kegardless of the tears, -and unavailing prayers ! 
Perhaps this hour in misery's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking 
blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk on beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment on her wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill satisfied keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifting heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy regal rage pursue 
The wretch already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow 1 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite to bless T 

I heard nae mair, for chanticleer 
Shook off the pouthery snaw, 



BURNS' POEMS. 77 

And hail'd the morning wi* a cheer, 
A cottage-rousing craw. 

Bat deep this truth impress'd my mind- 
Through all His works abroad, 

The heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAYID. 

A BROTHER POET. 

January 
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or two o' rhyme, 

In namely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bien and snug : 
I tent less, and want less, 
Their roomy fireside, 
' But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's power, 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't. 
But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Though we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 

As lang^ we're hale and fier ; 



78 burns' poems. 

Mair speir na, nor fear na,' 

Auld age ne're mind a feg : 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only but to beg. 
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 
When banes are crazed and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest : 
Ev'n then sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness, 
The honest heart that's free frae a 5 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However Fortune kick the ba 9 
Has ay some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still 

A comfort this nae sma'; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther we can fa'. 
What tho' like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

Bat either house or hall 1 
Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vale3 and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
Wi' honest joys our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till'fc, 
And sing't when we hae done, 

Ifc*s no in titles nor in rank : 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 



I 



burns' poems. 79 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair; 
It's no in books, it's no in lair, 

To make us truly blest ; 
If happiness has not her seat, 
And centre in the breast ; 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest ; 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay 
That make3 us right or wrang. 

Think ye, that sic as you or I, 

Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while 1 

Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 

Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 

They riot in excess ; 

Baith careless, and fearless, 
Of either heav'n or hell ; 
Esteeming and deeming 
I't a' an idle tale ? 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here, wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit o' age to youth ; 

Then let us ken ouraeP ; 



£0 BURNS* POEMS, 

They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses and crosses 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find na ither where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts, 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flattery I detest), 
This life has joys for you and I, 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy, 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover and the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean : 
It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beats me, 
And sets me a' on flame. 

O' all ye Pow'rs, who rule above ! 
0' Thou, whose very self art Love ! 
Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief, 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ! 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy mpst peculiar care I 



BURNS 3 POEM& 91 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow : 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for yon ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens, 

The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin, rank and file, 

A'maist before I ken I 
The ready measure rins as fine 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilcb, and stilt, and jimp' 

An rin an unco fit ; 

But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 

I'll slight now, and dight now, 
His sweety wizen'd hide. 



82 burns' poems. 



THE LAMENT. 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A 
friend's AMOUR. 



Alas, how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe. 

Home. 

thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou see'st a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep ; 

With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, un warming beam, 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked distant hill ; 
I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Reflected in the gurgling rill ; 
My fondly fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease, 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace. 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, lovelorn lamenting3 claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame.' 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft attested Powers above ; 
The promised Father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my loye I 



Btf&Ns' POEMS. i 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptured moments flown, 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone 1 
And must I think it 1 is she gone 1 

My sacred heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ; 

And is she ever, ever lost 1 
! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas, life's path may be unsmooth, 
. Her way may lie through rough distress ; 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them less. 
Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy 'd. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employed. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her, too scanty once of room ! 
E'en every ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom 1 
The morn, that warns the approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
; I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Fall many a pang and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant western m ain. 
And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore harrass'd out with care and grief, 



S4 BTJHNB 5 P0E2IS. 

My toil-beat nerves, and tear- worn eye 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief : 
Or, if I slumber, Fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard- wild, in sore affright : 
Even day all bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 
thou bright queen, who o'er th* expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway; 
Oft has thy silent marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly wand'ring, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 
O ! scenes in strong remembrance set, 

Scenes, never, never to return ; 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From every joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander through ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AIT KEN. ESQ. 
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short but simple annals of the poor. 

Gray. 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ; 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise; 



BURKS* fcOEMS. 85 

To you 1 sing in simple Scottish lays, 
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene : 

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, 
What Aitken in a cottage would have been ; 

Ah, though his worth unknown, far happier 
there, I ween. 

November ehill blaws loud wi' angry seugh ; 

The shortening winter- day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The blackening train o' craws to their repose : 
The toil worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hame- 
ward bend, 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 

Th' expectant wee things, todlin,stacher through 
To meet their Dad, wi' flichtering noise and 

. S lee - 
His wee bit ingie, blinkin bonnilie, 

His clean hearthstane,his thrifty wine's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his 
toil. 

Bely ve the elder bairns come drapping in, 
At service out amang the farmers roun* ; 

Some ca* the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town ; 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her ee, 

Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 



$$ BtTENS 7 POEMS. 

Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

And each for others' weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopefu' years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view : 
The Mother, wi' her needle and her shears, 

G-ars auld claes look amaist as weal's new ; 
The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command, 

The younker's a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

And ne'er though out o' sight, to j auk and play; 
4 And ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ; 

And mind your duty duly morn and night, 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might ; 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright.' 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 

Jenny wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, 

To do some errands and convey her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart- struck anxious care inquires his 
name, 

While Jenny hafllins is afraid to speak, 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 

Wi* kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappan' youth; he takes the mother's eye; 



BUBNS* POEM0. 87 

Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen ; 

The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye, 
The youngster's artless heart overflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
The mother wi' a woman's wiles can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like 

the lave. 
happy love ! where love like this i3 found ! 

heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage Experience bids me this declare— 
' If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
f| In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk white thorn that scents the 
evening gale/ 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch, a villain ! lost to love and truth; 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth % 
Cur3e on his perjur'd arts, dissembling smooth: 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis« 
traction wild % 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; 

The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 

The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 



&J BCMs' POEMS. 

To grace the lad, her weel hain'd kebbuck* 
fell, 
And aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's it gude ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i* the 

bell. 
The cheerfu' supper done, wi* serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big, ha' Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And 'Let us worship God,' he says, with solemn 

air. 
They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beats the heaven- ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd wi' these, Italian thrills are tame; 

The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise-, 
INae unison hae they wi' our Creator's praise. 

The priest- like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage, 

With Amelek's ungracious progeny, 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ir6 : 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, or wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire: 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. . 



BCBNB' POEMS. €9 

Perhaps that Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped, 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 
How He, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by 

heaven's command. 
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing, 

That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 

sphere. 
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's every grace except the heart, 
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous train, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd the language of the soul, 
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent pair their secret homay pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clamorous neit ; 



90 BtfRH8' POEMS, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide : 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside, 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

' An honest man's the noblest work of God;' 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 
What i3 a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd. 

0, Scotia, my dear, my native soil ; 

For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent, 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 

content ; 

And, O ! may heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ; 
Then, how'ver crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much 
lov'd Isle. 

Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 
That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted 
heart ; 

Who dared to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 

(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 

never, never, Scotia's realm desert,* 



-BARNS* POEMS, 91 

But still the patriot and the patriot bard^ 
n bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard. 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OP DEATH. 

thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear, 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something loudly in my breast 

Remonstrates I have done. 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong; 

And listening to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or fraiity stept aside, 
Do thou, All Good, for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd 

No other plea I have, 
But — Thou, are good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



A 



92 BUflMS' POEMS. 



A r ERBES 



LIFT AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE WHERE THE AUTHOR 
SLEPT ONE NIGHT. 

O thou dread Power, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear ; 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 
The holy sire— the mortal stroke, 

Long, long be pleas'd to spare ! 
To bless his little filial flock, 

And show what good men are. 
She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears. 
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to the parent's wish. 
The beauteous seraph sister band, 

With earnest tears 1 pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on every hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 
When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driven, 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in heaven ! 



BURHl' P0EM9. 93 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked way, 

Nor learns the gnilty lore. 
Nor for the seat of scornful pride, 

Casts forth his eyes abroad, 
But with humility and awe 

Still walks before his God. 
That man shall flourish like the trees 

Which by the streamlets grow ; 
The fruitful top is spread on high, 

And firm the root below. 
But he whose blossom buds in guilt 

Shall on the grounci be cast, 
And, like the rootless stubble tost 

Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath given them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OP VIOLENT iNaUISH, 

O thou Great Being ! what thoii art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure am I, that know to thee 

Are all thy works below. 



H BURNS' POEMS. 

Thy creature here below thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those Ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 
Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyea from tear3, 

Or close them fast in death. 
But if 1 must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine. 



THE FIB3T SIX YERSE3 OP THE FINE- 
TEENTH PSALM. 

thou the first and greatest friend 

Of all the humble race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place. 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command. 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 
Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 



Bluffs' POEMS. 95 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou eay^st, ' Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !' 

Thou layest them with ali their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like a morning ilow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All withered and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH" IK 
APBIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour : 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 
Thou bonnie gem ! 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When upward springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 
Cauld blew the bitter biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
SqWO rearM above the parent earth 

Thy tender form* 



S6 BURNS' POEMS. 

The flaunting floors our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield f 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

(V clod or stanes, 
Adorns the histie stibble field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise : 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade, 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er. 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven, 

To misery's brink, 
Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He ruin'd sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine— no distant date ; 



BURNS* POEMS. 97 

Stern ruin's ploughshare drives elate, 
Full on thy bloom,- 

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
Shall be thy doom. 



TO BUIN. 
All hail ! inexorable lord. 
At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome all ! 
With stern, resolv'd, despairing eye, 

1 see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho* thickening, and blackening 
Bound my devoted head. 
And thou, grim power, by life abhorr*d 
While life a pleasure can afford, 
Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I Bhrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay] 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped, 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



98 BUKNS* POEMS. 



TO MISS LOGAN. 

WITH BEATTIfi'S POEMS, AS A NEW-YEAK'S GtFU. 

January, 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driven, 

And you though scarce in maiden prime^ 
Are so much nearer Heaven. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charged, perhaps, too true ! 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FEIEND. 

May 1786. 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento : 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Tell try the world soon, my lad 5 
And, Andrew, dear ? believe m% $ 



BURNS' POEMS. 99 

Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 
And muckle they may grieve ye : 

For care and trouble set your thought, 
Even when your end's attained, 

And a' your views may come to nought; 
Where every nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a* ; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
YVha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to few sins rest ricked ; 
But och ! mankind are unco weak, 

And little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Yet they who fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end o' life 

They equally may answer : 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him, 
A man may tak his neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him, 

Aye free aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel* 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' every other man 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel piacM love^ 

Luxuriantly indulge it \ 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it, 

LOFC. 



1 



100 BUMS' POEMS. 

I wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing : 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling. $ 

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile* 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by every wile, 

That's justify'd by honour ; 
Nor for to hide it in a hedge, 

Not for a train attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where you feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its law^ 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature, 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ! 
An Athiest's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 
Religion may be blinded ; 

Or if she gie a random sting, 
It may be little minded ; 

But when on lifa we're tempest- driven, 
A conscience but a canker— 



burns' poims. 101 

A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor. 
Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting; 
May Prudence, Fortitude, and Truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ; 
In ploughman phrase, ' God send you speed,* 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser. 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A* ye wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A* ye wha live and never think. 

Come, mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, 

And owre the sea. 
Lament him a' ye rantin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random splore ; 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key, 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

And owre the sea. 
The bonny lasses weel may miss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him ; 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' ee ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea. 
Fortune ! they hae room to grumble ; 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drousy buramle, 



102 burns' poems. 

Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea; 
But he was gleg as any wumble, 

That's owre the sea ! 
Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear, 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ! 
He was her laureate monie a year 

That's owre the sea ! 
He saw misfortune's cauld nor'- west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A 'illet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a berth afore the mast, 

And owre the sea ! 

To tremble under Fortune's cummoek, 
On scarce a belly fu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud independent stomach, 

Could ill agree, 
So row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

And owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in : 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took prize in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
And hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee ! 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 



BtTftNS' POEM0. 103 j 

Farewell, my rhyme composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But ye may flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



HALLOWEEN. 

Yes ; let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train, 
To roe more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 

Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams; 
There, up the cove, to stray and rove, 

Amang the rocks and streams, 
To sport that night. 

Amang the bonny winding banks, 

Where Doon rins wimplin clear, 
Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

And shook the Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly countra folks 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, and pou their stocks, 

And haud their Halloween, 

Fu' blythe that night. 

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, 
Mair braw than when they're fine ; 



104 burns' poems, 

Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, and warm, and kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer- babs, 

Well knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin', 

Whyles fast that night. 
Then, first and foremost thro' the kail, 

Their stocks maun a' be sought ance : 
They steek their een, and graip and wail f 

For muckle anes, and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

And wander'd through the bow kail, 
And pou't, for want o' better Bhift, 

A runt was like a sow tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 
Then, straught hor crooked, yird ornane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin 

Wi' stocks outowre their shouther ; 
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne cooziely aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw.frae' mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn ; 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about 

Behind the muckle thorn : 
He gripped Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirled a' the lasses, 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kuittlini' the fause house 
Wi 1 him that night. 



burns' poems. 105 

The auld gudewife's weel hordit nits, 

Are round and round divided, 
And mony lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided ; 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out owre the chimlie 
Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa' wi' tentie ee ; 

Wha t'was, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, * 

She says unto hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
'Till fuff ! he started up the lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart, 
To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi* primsie Mallie ; 
And Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compared to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

And her ain fit it brunt it : 
While Willie lap, and swore by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits hersel and Rob in : 
In losing breeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin : 
Nell's heart was dancing at the view ; 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't, 



106 BUSKS' POEMS. 

Bob, stowlins, prie'd her bonny mou, 
Fu' cozie in theneuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the nearest takes, 

And to the kiln she goes then, 
And darklins graipit for the bauks, 

And in the blue clew throws them, 
m Right fear't that night. 

And ay she win't, and ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Gude L — d ! but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a b auk en', 
Of whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She didna wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jenny to her grannie says, 

1 Will ye go wi' me, grannie ] 
I'll eat the apple at the glass 

I gat frae uncle Johnnie :' 
She fuff'd her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sa vap'rin, 
She notic'd na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worstet apron 

Out thro' that night. 

s Ye little skelpie limmers's face ! 

How dare you try sic sportin, 
As seek the foul thief onie place, 

For him to spae your fortune ? 



burns' poems. 107 

Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For mony a ane has gotten a fright, 

An liv'd and died deleeret, 
On sic a night. 

' Ae hairst afore the Sherra Muir, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I wasna' past fyf teen ; 
The simmer had been cauld and wat, 

And stuff was unco green ; 
And aye a rantin kirn we gat, 

And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

1 Our stibble-rig was Eab M'Graen, 

A clever sturdy fallow ; 
He's sin' gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla ; 
He gat hemp seed, I mind it weel, 

An he made unco light o't ; 
But mony a day was by himsel', 

He was sae sairly frightened 
That vera night. 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

And he s ware by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp seed a peck, 

For it was a' but nonsense. 
The auld gudeman brought down the pock, 

And out a handfu' gied*him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Some time when nae ane see'd him, 
And try't that night. 

He marches through amang the stacks, 
Tho' he was something sturtin ; 



108 burns' poems. 

The graip he for a harrow taks, 

And haurb at his curpin : 
And every now and then, he says, 

' Hemp seed, I saw thee, 
And her that is to be my lasg, 

Come after me, and draw thee 
As fast that night/ 
He whistVd up Lord Lennox* maich, 

To keep his courage cheery : 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd and eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

And then a grane and gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

And tumbled wi' a wintle 

Out owre that night. 
He roar'd a horrid murder shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ; 
And young and auld cam' rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration ; 
He swoor 'twas hilchin' Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till, stop ! she trotted through them a' ; 

And wha was it but grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane, 

To win three wechts o' naething ; 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She put but little faith in ; 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

And twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Hippies 
That very night. 



burns' poems. 109 

She turns the key wi* canny thraw, 

An* owre the threshold ventures : 
But first on Sandy gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratten rattled up the wa', 

And she cried, L — d preserve her ! 
And ran through midden-hole and a' 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 
Fa' fast that nicht. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom'd thrice 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss- oak, 

For some black grousom carlin ; 
And loot a winzoe, and drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 

Aff's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As cantie as a kittlin ; 
Bat, och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ; 
She thro* the whins, and by the cairn, 

And owre the hill gaed scrievin , 
Where three lairds' lands met at a bum, 

To dip her left sark sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whiles owre the linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't : 
Whyles round a rocky scar it stays, 

Whyles in a wiel in dimpl't ,• 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 



110 burns' poems. 

Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 
Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Arnang the brachens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon 
The dell, or else an outler quey, 

Sat up and gae a croon ; 
Poor Leezifc'a heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock height she jumpit ; 
But misa'd a fife, and in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she jumpit; 

TVi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth stane, 

The luggies three are ranged, 
And every time great care is ta'en 

To see them duly changed. 
Auld Uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's year did desire, 
Because he got the toom dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they dinna weary : 
An 5 unco tales, and funny jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and cheery. 
Till buttered so'ns wi' fragrant lunt, 

Sets a* their gabs a steerin ; . 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careering 

Fa' blythe that night. 



Mi 



BURNS' P01M3, 111 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 



When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening, as I wander'd forth. 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou 1 

Began the reverend sage; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasures rage ] 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride : 
I've seen yon weary winter sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And every time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

man ! while in thy early year? ? 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious hour% 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 



112 BURNS' POEMb. 

Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's laws, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime ; 

Or manhood's active might : 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right ; 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, oh ! ili-match'd pair ; 

Show man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of Fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest, 
But oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp th9 numerous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ; 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Kegret, remorse, and shame ; 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man, 

Make countless thousands mourn. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow worm 

The poor petition spurn, 



burns' poems. 118 

Unmindful, though a weeping wife, 
And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave— 

By Nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind 1 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn 1 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human kind 

Is surely not the last. 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never sure been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn. 

O, Death, the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest, 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary laden mourn. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fa IE fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the pudding race I 
H 



114 BUBNS' POEMS. 

Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm ; 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 
The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 
His knife see rustic labour dight, 
And cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, what a glorious sight, 

Warm reeking, rich. 
Then horn for horn they stretch, and striv, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel swall'd kytes belyve, 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 
Is there that o'er his French ragout. 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricasee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect s Conner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner ] 
Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle-shank a guid whip»lash 5 

His nieve a nit : 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dashj 

how unfit, 






BUBNa' POEMS. 116 



But; mark the rustic, haggis- fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
And legs, and arm3, and heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ,* 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION 

TO OAVEN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 
To roose you up, and ca'd you guid, 
And sprung o' great and noble bluid, 
Because ye're sirnamed like his Grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when, I'm tir'd— an'd sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome sinfu lie, 
Set up a face, how I stopt short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do— maun do, sir, wi' them wha 
May please the great folk for a wamefu ; 
For me S sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ! 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ! 



116 bums' poems. 

Sae I shall say, and that's nae flattering 
Its just sic poet, and sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him t 
Or else, I fear, some ane 'ill skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me), 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft his guidness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang^ 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 
But then, nae thanks to him for a* that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca* that x 
It's naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor sinfu' corrupt nature ; 
Ye'll get the best of moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks^ 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy, 
That he's the poor man's friend in need a 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of dmn-ti-n ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
The tens o' thousands thou hast slain | 



burns' !>OEMS. 117 

Vain ia his hope* whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro* a winnock fra a wh-re, 
But point the rake that takes the door ; 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And haud their noses to the grunstane ; 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thriving ; 
IXo matter, stick to sound-believing, 

Learn three-mile pray'r3 and half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; 
Orunt up a solemn lengthen'd groan, 
And da — n a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believor. 

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs o' your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ? 
When Yengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire thro ws> the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ; 

Your pardon, sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication: 
But when divinity comes across me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, sir, ye see, 'twas nae daft vapour; 
But I maturely thought it proper, 



118 burns' poem?, 

When a' my works I did review. 

To dedicate them, sir, to you : 

Because (ye need na tak it ill) 

I thought them something like your3el\ 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 

And your petitioner shall ever 

I had amaist said, ever pray 

Bat that's a word I needna say : 

For praying 1 hae little skill o't ; 

I'm baith dead sweer, and wretched ill o't ; 

But I'8e repeat each poor man's prayer, 

That kens or hears about you, sir 

' May ne'er Misfortune's growlin bark 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk, 
May ne'er his gen'rous honest heart, 
From that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May KeDnedy's far honour' d name 
Lang beat his hymeneal flame, 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonny lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout and able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, wi' mutual rays, 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie John's ier oe, 
"When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rite3 bestow !' 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest wi' Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 



BUEN&' POEMS. 110 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
Whilst hopes and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as 1 am, 
Your humble servant then no more ,• 
For who would humbly serve the poor ; 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven 5 
While recollection's power is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife. 
I thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognise my master dear, 
If friendless, low, we meet thegither, 
Then, sir, your hand — my friend and brother. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat, 

All hail thy palaces and towr's, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From making wildly- scattered flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingYing hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade his labour plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ,• 
Here Justice from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 



120 BtfRNs' POEMS, 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail j 
Their views enlarged, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ; 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine : 
I see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his work indeed" divine. 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ! 
Like some bold vet 'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wail and massy bar, 

Grim rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe- struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings o' other years, 

Fam'd heroes, had their royal home; 
Alas ! how chang'd the times to come ; 

Their royal name low in the dust ; 
Their haples race wild-wand'ring roam 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just. 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 
Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 



BURNS' POEM& 121 

Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Even I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold following where your fathers led ! 

Edina ! , Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd fiow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRA1K, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April, 1, 1785. 

While briars and woodbines budding green, 
And paitricks scraiching loud at e'en, 
And morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 
I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin, 

To ca' the crack, and weave our stockin ; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin, 

Ye need nae doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a* it pleas'd me best, 



122 BURNS' POEMS. 

That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife ; 
It thirl'd the heart strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 
I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, * Can this be Pope or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark !' 
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 
It pat me fidgin fain to hear't 
And sae about him there I spier't, 
Then a' that kent him round declar't 

He had ingine, 
That nans exeeli'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae line. 

That, set him to a pint o' ale, 

And either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himseF, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, and swore an aith, 

Though I should pawn my pleugh and graifch, 

Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke back, 
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first and foremost I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

Does weel eneugh. 



burns' poems. 123 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 

But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 

And hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet what the matter ] 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
You, wha hardly ken verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang V 
But by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may-be wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns and stools, 
If honest nature makes you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin- hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes 1 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak, 
And syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek. 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 

That's a' the learning 1 desire : 

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub and mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 
Or Fergusson's the bauld and 



124 BURNS 7 POEMS. 

Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ; 
That would be lear enough for me, 

Ifl could get it. 
Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I believe, are few, 
Yet if your catalogue be fu', 

I'se no insist, 
But gif you want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 
I winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 
But friends, and folk that wish me well 

They sometimes roose me ! 
Tho' I maun own, as mony still 

As far abuse me. 
There's a wee faut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses— Gude forgie me ! 
For many a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair; 
May be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 
But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there, 
We's gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
And hae a swap o' rhymin* ware 

Wi' ane anither. 
The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
And kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart : 
Andjaith we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 



BURNS* fcOEMd. 125 

Awa, ye selfish warl'y race, 

Wha think that having, sense, and grace, 

Ev'n love and friendship, should give place 

To catch- the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

' Each aid the others/ 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But to conclude my long epistle, 

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whistle, 

Your friend and servant, 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie : 

Wi' gratefu* heart, I thank you brawlie \ 

Though I maun say't I wad be silly, 

And unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin billie, 

Your flatterin strain. 

But I'se believe, ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 



126 BU&N3' POEMS. 

Ironic satire, sidelings sklented 

On my poor musie : 
Though in sic phrasin terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 
My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but daur a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 
(0 Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 
III suited law's dry, musty arts ; 
My curse among your whunstane hearts, 

Ye E'nbrugh gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes, 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lassie gie my heart a screed, 

As whyles they're like to be my dead, 

(0 sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may ridge fu' foin, 

She's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild- meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan, 



burns' poems, 127 

Ramsay and famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ! 
Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, and Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ; 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

And cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells, 
Her muirs red-brown wi' heather-bells, 
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bare the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southern billies. 

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring tide flood ! 
Oft hae our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward red- wet shod, 

Or glorious died. 

sweet are Colia's haughs and woods, 
When lint whites chant amang the buds, 
And jinking hares in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While through the braes the cushat croods 

Wi' wailfu' cry, 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, 
When winds raye through the naked tree| 



128 BUENS' POEMS. 

Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day. 

O Nature ! a' thy shews and forms, 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the simmer kindly warms 

Wi' life and light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang dark night. 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trottin burn's meander, 

And no think lang : 
O sweet, to stray, and pensive ponder, 

A heart- felt sang. 

The war'ly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog shouther, jundie, stretch and strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive, 

Bum o'er their" treasure. 
Fareweel, ' my rhyme-composing brither !' 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither ; 
Now let us lay our heads thegither 

In love fraternal ; 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal. 
While Highlandmen hate tolls and taxes 
While muirlan' herds like gude fat braxies ; 
While Terra Firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Bobert Burns, 






* 
stums' i»0E$r§. 129 



POSTSCRIPT. 



My memory's no worth a preen ; 

1 had amai3t forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this New Light, 
'Bout which oar herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 
In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, and sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
Btitspak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, 

Like you or me. 
In thae auld times, they thought the moon 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her la*t roon 

G^ed past their viewing 
And shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new ane. 

This pass'd for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam' in their heads to doubt it, 
Till chieh gat up and wad confute it, 

An^ cad it wrang; 
And muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and long. 

Some herds weel learn' d upo' the beuk 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

And out o* sight, 
An' backlins coming, to the leuk 

She grow mair bright, 
t 



130 barns' poems, 

This was deny'd, it was affirmed ; 

The herds and hirsels were alarm'd ; 

The rev'rend greybeards rav'd and storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 



Prae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Prae words to aiths to clours and nicks, 
And monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
And some, to learn them for their tricka, 

Were hang'd and brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands> 
Auld Auld Light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the younsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick and stowe, 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd; 
And some their New Light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin : 
Their zealous herds are vexed and sweatin; 
Mysel', I've even seen them greetin'. 

Wi' girning spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on, 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons, 
fam AtiLi kightj herds in aeefros towa% 



m 



BURKS' POEMS. lgl 

Are mind'fc in things they ca' balloons, 

To take a flight, 
And stay ae month amang the moons, 

And see them right. 

Gude observation they will gie them ; 

And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them ; 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
And when the New Light billies see them* 

I think they'll crouch. 

Sae ye observe, that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a 'moonshine matter;' 
But though dull-prose folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope some bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN EANKINE, 

INCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O rough, rude ready-witted Kankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin ! 
There's monie godly folks are thinking 

Your dreams and tricks 
Will send you, Koran like, a sinkin 

Straught to auld JS ick's. 

Ye hae sae monie cranks and cants, 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye mak a devil o* the saunts, 

And fill them fu' ; 
And then their failings, flaws, and wants > 

Are a' seen through, 



182 BURNS' POEMS. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, 0, dinna tear it ; 
Spare' t for their sakes wha often wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Bives't off their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're scaithing, 
It's just the blue gown badge and claithing 
0' saints; tak that, ye leave them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae onie unregenerate heathen. 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for and mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Ton sang, ye'll sen'fc, wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Though faith, sma' heart hae I to sing, 
My muse now scarcely spreads her wing ; 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

And danc'd my fill ; 
I'd better gaen and sair't the king, 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 

And brought a paitrick to the gru'n, 

A bonnie hen, 
And as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport, 



burns' poems. 138 

Ne'er thinkin they would fash me for*t ; 

But deil-ma«care, 
Somebody tells the poacher- court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ! 
I was suspected for the plot, 

I scorn' d to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

And pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
And by my pouther and my hail, 
And by my hen, and by her tail, 

I vow and swear, 
The game shall pay, o'er muir and dale, 

For this, neist year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by, 
And the wee pouts begin to cry, 
L— d, 1'se hae sportin by and by, 

For my gowd guinea, 
Though I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't in Virginia. 
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame, 

Scarce through the feathers ; 
And baith a yellow George to claim, 

And thole their blethers. 
It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair, 
But pennyworths again are fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected sir, 

Your most obedient. 



,, 



134 BURBfi' POfiMS. 

1 
( 

WRITTEN IN FRIARS C ARSE HERMI- 
TAGE ON NITHSIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
'Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As youth and love, with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure, with her siren air, 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits would'st thou scale? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait ; 
Dangers, eagle pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful Peace, with linnet-song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose : 
As Life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease, 



BUBNS' ?OEMS, 185 

There ruminate with sober thought, 

On all tbou'st seen, and heard and wrought, 

And teach the sportive younkers round, 

Saws of experience, sage and sound, 

Say, man's true, genuine, estimate, 

The grand criterion of his fate, 

Is not, — art thou high or low 1 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 

Wert thou cottager or king ? 

Peer or peasant ? — no such thing ! 

Did many talents gild thy span ! 

Or frugal nature grudge thee one % 

Tell them, and press it on their mind, 

As thou thyself must shortly find, 

The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 

To Virtue or to Vice is giv'n, 

Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 

There solid self- enjoyment lies ; 

That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 

Lead to the wretched, vile and base ! 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Kith- side. 



L 



13S BURNS' POEMS. 

ODE. 

8A0RED TO IHB MEMORY OF MRS. — OF — 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark 
Hangman of creation ! mark, 
Who in widow- weeds, appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 



Yiew the wither'd beldam's face — 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose, 
See those hands ne'er stretch'd to save, 
Hands that took— but never gave, 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblesfc — 
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling, hither bends] 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies : 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell- ward plies. 

EPOLE. 

And are they now of no avail, 
Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year ? 



burns' poems- 137 

In other words can Mammon fail; 

Omnipotent as he is here 1 
0, bitter mockery of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is driven? 
The cave lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heaven. 



ELEGY ON C APT k 1 1ST MATTHEW 
HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS 

HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM 

ALMIGHTY GOD ! 

But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright ; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, heavenly light, 

death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame on his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 
He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee Matthew, Nature's seP shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 
Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly rock your cresting cairns \ 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

\ Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join ye, Nature's sturdiest bairns 3 

My wailling numbers J 



138 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 

Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 

Ye burnieB, wimpling down your glens, 

Wi' todlin din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi 5 hasty stens, 

Frae linn to linn. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see ! 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on yon thorny tree, 

The first of flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head, 

At e'en, when beans their fragrance shed, 

F the rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots and speckled teals : 
Ye iisher heron, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Bair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o* day, 
'Mang fields o' flooring clover gay ; 



burns' poems, i$£ 

And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far walds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 
Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow*!, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro* the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 
O, rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

Bat tales of woe 1 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 
Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
The gay, green, ilow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead ! 
Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twink'ling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 



I 



110 BURNS* P01MS* 

Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou crosst that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around % 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
Bat by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth \ 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief, 
And truth I shall relate, man ; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief, 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast, 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
.For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca', 
Wad life itself resign, man, 



BURKS* P0KM9. 141 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 

Like the unchanging blue, man, 
This was a kinsman o* thy ain — 

For Matthew was a true man. 
If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 

And ne'er gude wine did fear, man; 
This waa thy billie, dam, and sire, 

For Matthew was a queer man. 
If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 
May dool and sorrow be his lot, 

For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheet o* daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 
, Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ! 
The mavis wild, wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest; 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi'gare nor, thrill oppresfc 



142 burns' poems. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
IV lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blithe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And monie a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That through thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ! 
]STor the balm that draps on wounds of woe 

"Prae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine; 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And when thou meet'st thy mother's friend 

Remember him for me ! 

! soon to me, may summer mm 
2&? mis lig*rt up the mora | 



burns' poems, 143 

Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ; 
And in the narrow house o' death, 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flowers that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave, 



TO EOBERT GtUHAM, ESQ, 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ,• 
Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripples rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ] 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey 'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade, : 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign : 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forest, andonespurnstheground 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power — 
Foxes and statesman, subtle wiles ensure : 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But oh ! thou bitter step-niother and nard, 
Tq thy £oor, fenwtessi *m&§4 <M4~vhe &w% I 



144 BTJ&KS' POEMS. 

A thing unteachable in this world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dullness, comfortable fur. 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side, 
Yampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the path of fame ; 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes — 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 
His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear: 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life ; 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 

rage. 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd 
For half starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies seifseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

Oh dulness, portion of the truly blest J 
Calm riMfof d heayea of eternal rest t 



BtfBNS* poems! 145 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish care they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder < some folks' do not starve. 
The grave sage heron thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grape, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they hear, 
And just conclude, that 'fools are Fortune's 

care.' 
So heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign post stands the stupid ox. 

No so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not so the workings of their moon-struck brain ! 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear \ 
Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd at noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer ! 
Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down, 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path, 
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death, 



14$ BURKS* POEMS. 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EAEL OF GLEN- 
CAIRN". 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely taen. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ringdown with years; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touched his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang : — 

1 Ye scatter'd birds, that faintly sing 

The reliques of the vernal quire ; 
Ye woods, that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year : 
A few short months, and glad and gay 

Again ye'li charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time, 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

% I am a bending, aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain } 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

Aa<i mji last UM of mik U gmv i 



BTTRNS' POEMS. 147 

Jtae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 

But I maun lie before the storm, 
And ithers plant them in my room. 

'I've seen so mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share, 

'And last, (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flower amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay — 
In weary being now 1 pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

1 Awake thy last sad voice, my harp, 
The voice of woe and wild despair, 

Awake, resound thy latest lay, 
Then sleep in silence evermair, 

And thou, my last, best, only friend, 
That tillest an untimely tomb, 

Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom* 

'In poverty's low barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round J 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found ; 
jThou found'st me, like the morning r&flj 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 



_ 



148 bit ens' poems. 

The friendless bard and rustic song, 
Became alike thy fostering care. 

* ! why has worth so short a date, 

While villains ripen grey with time 1 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime, 
Why did I live to see that day % 

A day to me so fall of woe ! 
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

* The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen : 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glenca'rn, 

And a* that thou hast done for me/ 



LINES 

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHtTEFOORP, OF WHITEF00RI>, 
BART., WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'&t, 
Who, save thy mind's reproach nought eartbly 

fear'st, 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I, the patron, lov'cfj 
His worth, his honour, all the world approved*. 
We'll mourn till we, too, go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path, to that dark wo*l<| 

unknown 



b vans' POBH0, H9 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARM LIMP 
BY ME, 

WHIOH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AF, 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye, 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh* 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go, live poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hap- 
less fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OP THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, BOX* 
BURGH9HIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
Or tunes ^olian strains between. 



- 



15G BURNS' POEMS. 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 

The progress on the spiky blade : 
While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed. 
While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 
So long, sweet poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 






ON THE LATE 

CAPTAIN GROSES PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE AHTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede ye tent it : 
A chiel's amang ye takin' notes, 

And faith, he'll prent it. 
If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow I he has an unco sleight 

0* eauk and keel. 



BARNS* POKKS. Wl 

By some auld, houlet haunted biggin, 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L— d save's ! colleagin 

At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or cham'er, 

Ye gypsy gang that deal in glamour, 

And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b— — -es. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth of auld nick-nackets ; 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets, 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont gude ; 
And parritch pats, and auld saut backets, 

Afore the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

0' Balaam's ass : 
A broom stick o' the witch o' Endor, 

Weel shod wi 1 brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu gleg, 
The cut o' Adam's philibeg : 



- 



252 burns' poems, 

The knife that nicket Abel's craig 
He'll prove you fully, 

It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or long kail gullie. 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Gude fellows wi' him; 
And port, port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him. 

Now by the powers o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose : — 
Whae'er o'er thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee : 
I'd tak the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Sham fa* thee. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to her 

by the Author. 

Beauteous rose-biid, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flower 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r, 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ; 
Never, never, reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf, 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view, 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew. 



BUAKS' POEMS. 153 

May'sfc thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird thy requiem sings, 
Thou amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth, 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth, 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 

A TALE. 

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke.~ 

Gawin Docglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market days are wearing late, 
And folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousin' at the nappy, 
And gettin fou and unco happy, 
We think nae on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gatherin her brows like gatherin storm, 
Nursin her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o'Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr aye night did canter, 
(A.uld Ayr, wham ne'er a toon surpasses 
Tor honest men and bonnie lassies.) 



ISi burns' poems. 

Oh, Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
A blethrin. blusterin, drucken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house even on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday, 
She prophesied, that late or soon, 
Thou wad be found deep drown'd in Doon; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway^fl auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advises, 
The husband frae the wife despises. 

But to our tale ; ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a very brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 
And aye the ale was gettin better; 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious, 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 



BUWffl' S0EHS. 1*J5 

The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn didna' mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himseF amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 
O'er a* the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You see the flower, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snowfall in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place \ 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form, 
Evanishing amid the storm — 
Nae man can tether time or tide ! 
The hour approaches, Tam maun ride t 
That hour, o' nights black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
And sic a night he tak's the road in, 
As ne'er puir sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blaw its last; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed : 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd ; 
That night a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles hauding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 



156 BUBSS' POEMS* 

Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and owlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drucken Charlie brak's neok-bane : 
And thro' the whins and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mother hang'd herseV- — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll, 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.— 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn I 
Wi' tippeny we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he cared nae deils a bodle, 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 
Put life and mettle in their heels ; 



BURNS* P5EM3. 157 

A winnock bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast ; 
A towsy tyke, black, grim and large, 
To gie them music was hi3 charge ; 
He scr ewdhe pipes, and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl — 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip sleight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tarn was able, 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet- aims : 
Twa span lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ,• 
A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 
Wi* his last gasp did gab his gape : 
Five tomahawks wi' blood red rusted ; 
Five scimiters, wi* murder crusted ; 
A garter which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o* life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o* horrible and awfu', 
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linkit at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn ! Tarn ! had thae been queens, 
A' plump an4 strappin, in their teens; 



158 BURNS* POEMS. 

Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw white se'enteen hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad bae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonny burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Kigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, . 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu* brawlie, 
There was a winsome wench and wailie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carriek shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd monie a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith muckle corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear.) 
Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she bad worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie— 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a* her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flung, 
(A sip pie jade she was and Strang,) 
An' how Tarn stood, like one bewitch'd, 
And thought his very e'en enrich'd, 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 

Att4 botoh'4 mA Wew wi' might an4 min $ 



BtTBNS' POEMS. 15$ 

Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a* thegither, 
And roars out, ' Weel done Cutty sark !' 
And in an instant a* was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi* angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When 'Catch the thief,' resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi* mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tarn ! thou'lt get thy fairin ,• 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin, 
Kate soon will be a waefu' woman. 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross, 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake, 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn with furious ettle; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle, — ■ 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read* 
Ilk mm ami »other/s son, take heed ; 



160 burns' poems. 

Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty sarks run in your mind, 
Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE 
DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. 

Brother to a young lady, a particular friend of the 
Author's. 

Sab thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms ; 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew, 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smiled ; 
But long, ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguiled. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung ; 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power, 
Strong as he shares the grief 

That pierces Isabella's heart, 
To give that heart relief ! 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound He gave ; 



By&as' poems. 161 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 

And fear no withering blast : *l 

There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR 
WATER. 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OP ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know, your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ! 
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams 

In flaming summer pride, 
Dry- withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly jumpin, glow'rin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, / I 

If, in their random, wanton sports, 

They near the margin stay : 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left, the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As poet Burns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 



162 burns' poems. 

A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Ev'n as I was he shor'd me, 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high, my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild roaring o'er a linn ; 
Eujoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Wad then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes : 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, musie's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin, pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 
To shield them from the storm ; 

And coward maukins sleep secure, 
Low in their grassy forms : 

Here shall the shepehrd make his seat, 
To weave his crown o* flow'rs ; 



burns' poems. 16$ 

Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 
From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising words with all their wealth 

As empty idle care; 
The flowers shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of neaven to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 

And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild chequering thro' the trees, 
Bave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling to the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's rest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring like their father's, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social Sowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses." 



^ 



IH burns' poem?, 



WEITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF 
THE INN AT K.ENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful eteep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious I pursue, 
Till famed Breadalbane, opens to my view. — 
The meeting cliffs each deep sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosonrd 'mong the 

hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on its verdant side, 
The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches striding o'er the newborn stream ; 

The village glittering in the noontide beam, 

* * * * 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— 

Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
And look through Nature with creative fire, 
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconciPd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; 



BURNS* POEMS. 165 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward 

stretch her scan, 
And injured Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OP FYERS, NEAR L0CH-NESS, 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream re- 
sounds, 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet re- 
sounds, 
And viewless Echo's ear astonished, rends. 
Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

showers, 
The hoary cavern, wild surrounding low'rs, 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid cauldron boils — 



ON THE BIHTH OF A POSTHUMOUS 
CHILD. 

BORN UNDER PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OP FAMILY 
DISTRESS. 

Sweet flowret, pledge o % meikle love, 
And ward o' mony a prayer, 



165 BURNS' POEMS. 

What heart o' stane wad thou no' move, 
Sae helpless, sweet and fair. 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the sheltering tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 
May He who gies the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 
May He, the friend of woe and want, 

Who heals life's various stounds, 
Protect and guard the mother plant, 

And heal her cruel wounds ! 
But late she flourish "d, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn ; 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

TTnscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 

A BROTHER POET. 
AULD HEEBOUR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld farrant frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt you flatter ; 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly rhyming clatter 

Some less maun sair. 



burns' poems. 167 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

0' warl'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm rede ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be haint wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin the words to gar them clink ; 

Whyles daezt wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons; 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commend me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

0' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae Bcheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in 

And while ought's there, 
-Then, hiltie-skiltie, we gae scrievin , 

And fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 



168 stums' poems. 

At name, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho* rough and raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 
Haud to the muse, my dainty Davie ; 
The war? may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae poor, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



i 



LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD 
DAER e 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a lord. 

I've been at drucken writers' feasts 
Nay, been bitch- fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken. 
I've even join'd the honoured jorum, 
Where mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did slocken. 

But wi' a lord — stand out, my shin ! 
A Lord — a Peer— an earl's son ! — 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

Bat oh ! for Hogarth's magic power \ 
To show Sir Brady's willyart glow'r, 



fctffcKS* POEMS. 16*9 

And how he star'dand stammered, 
When goavan, as if led wi* branks, 
An' stumpin* on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer/d. 
To meet good Stuart little pain is, 
Or Scotia's sacred Demosthenes, 

Thinks I they are but men ! 
But Burns, my L— d,— guid G— d ! I doited ! 
My knees on ane anither knoited, 

As faltering I gaed ben ! 

I sidling shelter'd in a neuk, 
An* at his lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An* (what surpris'd me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o* the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming; 
The fient a pride, na pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet, with unconcern, 

One rank as weel's anither ; 
Nae honest, worthy man need care, 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED 
ECHO. 
In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 
Your heavy loss deplore : 



170 burns' pohms. 

Now half extinct your powers of song, 
Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF 
FERGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSON, POET, 
Born, September 5, 1751 Died, October 16, 1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
1 No storied urn nor animated bust,' 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er the Poet's dust. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland, 21st Oct, 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie, 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit j auntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 
The ill thief blaw the Heron south, 
And never drink be near his drouth I 
He tauld mysel, by word o' mouth, 

He'd take my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better! 
But 'aiblins, honest Master Heron 
Had at that time some dainty fair one. 



burns' poems. 171 

To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tired o* sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 
But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 
Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, 
"Wha, by Castalia's wimpling streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That strange necessity supreme is 

' Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife, and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, 

I need nae vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me through this world o' care; 
I'm weary sic o!t late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers 1 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 

Thou stalk o' carl.hemp in man, 

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair, 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 



172 BURNS* POEMS. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time/ 
To make a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay, 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye, 

Robert Burns. 



ELEGY 

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely in her native skies; 
Nor envious Death so triumph 'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set, 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves, 
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 

Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves, 
Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more. 

Ye heathy wastes, inmix'd with reedy fens ; 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd ; 



burn^ poems. 173 

Ye ragged cliffs, o'er hanging dreary glens, 
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall vernal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence, forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And Virtue's light that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care, 

So decks the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN, 

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTE- 
NELLE, ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the ' Eights of Man ;' 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The • Rights of Woman' merit some attention. 

First in the sexes' intermixed connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is, protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, 



174 burns' poems. 

Sunk on the earth, defaced its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward the impending storm* 

Our second Eight — but needless here is cau- 
tion, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough, rude man had naughty 

ways; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 

riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet ! — 

Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled; 
Now, well-bred men — and ye are all well- 
bred- 
Most justly think (and ye are much the 

gainers) 
Such conduct's neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 
dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the 

nearest, 
Which ev'n the Rights of Kings in low prostra- 
tion 
Most humbly own— 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such a host what flinty savage dares— 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 



burns' poems. 175 

But truce with kings, and truce with consti- 
tutions, 
With bloody armaments and resolutions, 
Let Majesty your firsfc attention summon, 
Ah ! ca ira ! the Majesty of Woman ! 



YERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 

WITH A PRESENT OP SONGS. 

Herb where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In saered strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

Say may no ruffian feeling in the breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

Bun peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake its seraph song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, 
As modest Want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven- born piety her sanction seals. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF 
A COPY OF HIS POEMS. 

PRESENTED TO A LA1Y, WHOM HE HAD OFTEN 
CELEBRATED UNDER THE NAME OP CHLOBIS. 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend, 

The moralising muse. 

Since thou in all thy youth and charms, 
Must bid the world adieu, 



176 burns' poems, 

(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 
To join the friendly few. 

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 
Chill came the tempests lower ; 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of Heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest 

These joys could he improve. 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO 
MR, WILLIAM TYTLER. 

WITH A PRBSENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. 

Reverend defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
heart, 
But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

The something like moisture conglobes in my 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 



BURNS* POEMS. 177 

A poor friendless wanderer may well claim a 
sigh, 
Still more if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he sooffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George' I most heartily 
join, 

The Queen and the rest of the gentry ; 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 

Their title's avow'd by my country. 

Bat why of this epocha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 

But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

!Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye 
And ushers the long deary night : 

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 
Your course to the latest is bright. 



178 burns' poems. 

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserv'd ! 

la chase o' thee, what crowds ha'e swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk ennerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And, och ! o'er aft thy joes "hae starv'd 

'Mid a 1 thy favours ? 

Say, lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang, 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Horatian fame : 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches % 
They're no herd's ballads, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinlin' patches 

0' heathen tatters, 
I pas3 by hunders' nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place? 



burns' poems. 179 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan, 
There's ane come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever, 
The teeth of Time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever, 
Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 
In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 
Nae gowden stream through myrtles twines ? 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs to tell.' 
In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trouts by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns grey, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 
Thy rural loves are Nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

0* witchin love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



SKETCH.— NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

This day, Time winds the exhaust'd chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again; 
I see the old bald pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpaired machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull, routine. 



180 burns' poems. 

The absent lovers, minor heirs, 
In vain assail him with their prayers> 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the norm 3=*, 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 
And join with me amoralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver! 
'Another year is gone for ever.' 
And what is this day's strong suggestion 1 ? 
'The passing moment's all we rest on.' 
Rest on ! — for what] what do we here? 
Or why regard the passing year ] 
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to your date one minute more ] 
A few days may — a few years must — 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss] 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of Nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies ; 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight; 
That future life, in worlds unknown, 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woeful night.— 

Since then, my honour'd first o' friends, 
On this poor being all depends, 



BURNS' *0E5I§. 181 

Let us the important now employ, 
And live as those that never die. — 

Altho' with days and honours crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard ; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

Sent by the Surveyor of Taxes to each Farmer, or- 
dering him to send a signed List of his Horses. 
Servants, Wheel Carriages, &e., and whether he 
was a married Man or a Bachelor, and what Chil- 
dren he had. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle ; 
My hand-a-fore, a guid auld lias been, 
And wight and wilfa' a* his day's been, 
My handa hin, a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft has borne me sale frae Killie, 
And your old borough raony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime; 
But ance, whan in my wooin pride, 
I, like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(L— d pardon a' my sins, an' that, too !) 
I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, 
She's a' bedevil'd wi the spavie, 



182 burns' poems. 

My fur-a-hin's a guid grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hastie, 
A d — mn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie, 
Forbye a cowte, of eowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least. 

Wheel carriages, I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new 1 
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le, 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Bun- deils for ran tin and for noise, 
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother, 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely ; 
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my lear,) 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling 
As fast as ony in the d walling. 

I've name in female servant station, 
Lord keep me frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ! 
And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
I ken the devils dare na touch me. 
Wi' weans Pm mair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 183 

My sonsie, smirking, dear bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in the face, 
Enough of aught ye like but grace, 
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already, 
An' gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the L — d ! ye's get them a' thegither. 

And now remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paddle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle : 
I've sturdy stumps, the L — d be thankit ! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it, 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date are under noted : 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Suls'cripsi hmc 

Robert Burhs. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSY L , DUMFRIES, 

With Books which the Bard presented to her. 
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name ; 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill— but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all th& treasure* of the mind— 



184 BURNS* POEMS. 

These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OP 
EXCISE, DUMERIES, 1796. 

Friend of the poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake ! alake ! the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches ! 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it ; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi'-life bluid dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 
So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come, laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin' 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell Death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 



BURKS* POEMS. 183 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't : 
My hale and weel I'll take a care o't, 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN" WHOM HE 
HAD OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wil'd from Wisdom's way, 

The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 
(Not moony madness more astray ;) 

Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 
Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 

Ah, why should I such scenes outlive ! 
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 

'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 

POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 
1796. 

Mr honour'd Colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma* heart hae I to speel 

Th t steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 
O what a canty warld were it, 
Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it ; 
And Fortune favour worth and merit 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret : 

Syne wha wad starve?) 



136 burns' poems. 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her, 
Oh ! nickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Aye wavering, like the willow- wicker, 

'Tween guid and ill. 

Then that curst carmagole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, 

He's aff like fire. 

Ah, Nick ! ah, Nick ! it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft : 
Some weave, unseen, the spider so are 

0' hell's damn'd waft. 

Puir man, the flie aft bizzes bye, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld d d elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure ! 

Soon, heeis-owre-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 



BU&NS' POEMS. 187 

Abjuring a* intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! Amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And through my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like raking engines ! 
When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes, 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, — 

Aye mocks our groan ! 
Adown my beard the slavers trickle \ 
I thraw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup : 
While raving mad, I wish the heckle, 

Were in their doup. 

Of a' the num'rous human dools, 

I'll har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca J hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' misery yell, 



IBS BURNS* POEMS. 

And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth- ache, surely bear'st the bell, 

Amang them a' ! 

thou grim mischief- making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel, 

In gore, a shoe-thick : — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Tooth»ache. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Who, as it pleases best thysel', 

Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 
A' for thy glory, 

And no for any guid or ill 

They've done afore thee. 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
When thousands thou hast left in night, 
That 1 am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burning and a shining light, 
To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get such exaltation? 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation'? 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When fraemy mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might have plung'd me into hell, 



burns' poems, 189 

To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burning lake, 
Where d — -d devils roar and jell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample, 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To a' thy flock. 

L — d, thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, 
And singin' there, and dancin' here, 

Wi' great an' sma'; 
For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a\ 

But yet, O L— d ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust, 
And sometimes too, wi* warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in : 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

DefiTd in sin. 
O L — d ! yestreen, thou kens, wi* Meg — 
Thy pardon I sincerely beg, 
may it ne'er be a living plague 

To my dishonour, 
And 111 ne'er lift a lawless leg 

Again upon her. 

Besides, I farther maun avow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — 

But L— d, that Friday I was fou, 

When I came near her, 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 



190 burns' poems. 

May be thou lets this fleshy thorn 

Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted : 
If sae, thine han' maun e'en be borne, 

Until thou lift it. 

L— d bless thy chosen in his place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
But G — d confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace, 

An' public shame. 

L — d, mind G — n H- — n's deserts, 

He drinks, an* swears, and plays at cartes, 

He has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma% 
Frae G— d's ain priest the people's hearts 

He steals awa\ 

And when we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
And set the warld all in a roar 

0' laughing at us : — 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail an' potatoes ! 

L — d, hear my earnest cry an* pray'r, 

Against the presbytery o' Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, L— d make it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
L— d weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

L— -d, my G— d, that glib tongu'd Aiken, 
My vera heart an' saul are quakin, 






BUBNS' POEMS. 101 

To think how we stood groaning shakin/ 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi* hangin lip gaed snakin/ 

And hid his head, 
L — d, in the day of vengeance try him, 
L — d, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em 

Nor hear their pray'r; 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 
But, L — d, remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane. 
And a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen 1 Amen ! 

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 
Herb Holy Willie's sair-worn clay, 

Takes up its last abode ; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear, the left hand road. 
Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 

Poor silly body, see him ; 
Kae wonder he's as black's the grun— 

Observe wha's standing wi' him ! 
Your brunstane devilship, I see, 

Has got him there before ye ; " 
But haud your nine tail cat a wee, 

Till ance you've heard my story. 
Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gien him o'er, 

And mercy's day is gene. 



iv2 bums' poems. 

But hear me, sir, Deil as ye are. 
Look something to your credit; 

A coof like him wad stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it. 



ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND MRS. 
DUNLOP, OF DUNL0P. 

Sensibility, how charmiDg, 

Thou, my friend, can'st truly tell; 

But distress, with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well. 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, 

Finer feeling can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



SONNET, 

Written on the 25th of January, 1793, the birth-day of 
the author, on hearing a thrush sing in a 
morning walk. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough ; 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ; 



BlJftNS 5 POEMS. 1§3 

See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 
At thy blythe carrol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominions drear, 
Sits meek Content, with light unanxious 

heart, 
Welcomes the rapid|moment3,|bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope and fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day, 
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 

skies ! 
Eiches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 

What wealth could never give or take away. 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 
The mite high Heaven be3tow'd, that mite 
with thee I'll share. 



TO THE 

GUIDW1EE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE, 

In answer to an epistle she had sent the Author. 
GUIDW1F8, 

I misd it weel in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and Mate, 

An' first could thresh the barn 
Or hand a yokin, at the pleugh ; 
And though forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco* proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 

Could rank; my rig and lae3, 

N 



1£4 BURNS' POEMS. 

Still shearing, and clearing, 
The tither stooked raw, 

Wi' elaivers, and haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

E'en then, a wish, (I mind its pow'r,) 
A wish, that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast- 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough bur-thistle spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeding*heuk aside, 
An* spar'd the symbol dear; 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
4 Scot still, a blot still, 
IiEnew no higher praise. 

But still the elements o s sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrong. 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Lili on that hairst I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain ; 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up my jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle, 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex ! ilk guid ohiel %bpj 
Jft! merry &mcs fo waterways, 



BUBHS' POEMS. 19g 

An' we to share in common • 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture- giving woman. 
Ye surly nymphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither; 
Ske, ; honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected wi' her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears : 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears, 

For you, no bred to barn or byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 

The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 

By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 

I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hinging o'er my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, lang heal then. 

And plenty be your fa', 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 
March, 1787. R, Bvzm, 



! 



196 burns' ^poems. 



SONNET. 



ON THE DEATH OP ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., OF 
GLENRIDDEL, 1794. 

No more ye warblers of the wood — no more ; 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul ; 
Thou young eye'd Spring, gay in the verdant 
stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest 
roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 

That strain flows round the untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier : 
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, 

Is in his ■ narrow house' for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



VERSES 

ON THE DEATH OP SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave : 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro* the dark'ning 
air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the ioy'd haunts of Scotia's royal traia i 



BUANS* EOKM& 197 

Or mus'd where lirapid streams, once hallow'd, 
well, 
Or mouldering ruins mark the sacred fane. 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetlin' 
rocks ; 
The clouds, swift- wing'd flew o'er the starry 
sky; 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, 

In deeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd; 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbu'd. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 
Keclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam' d afar, 
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. 

' My patriot son fills an untimely grave !' 

With accents wild, and lifted arms she cried — 
' Low lies the hand that oft was stretched to 
save, 
Low lies the heart that sweird with honest 
pride ! 

* A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

And drooping hearts surround their patron's 
bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh, 



IDS B0EHS' 20EM3. 

1 I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 
But, oh ! our hope is born but to expire J 

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 
( My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name, 
No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 

And future ages hear his growing fame. 
1 And I will join a mother's tender cares, 

Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 
That distant years may boast of other Blairs !' 

She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 

YERSES, 

Written on the Blank Leaf of a copy of his Poem, pre- 
sented to an old sweetheart, then married. 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remembered dear* 
|g Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 

Friendship !— 'tis all cold nature now allows : 
And when you read the simple, artless rhymes, 

One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, 
Who, distant burns in flaming, torrid climes, 

Or haply lies beneath the Atlantic roar. 

EXTEMPORE. 

Written in answer to a Card from an intimate acquaint- 
ance of Burns, inviting him to spend an hour at a 
Tavern. 

The king's most humble servant I 
Can scarcely spare a minute ; 

But I'll be wi' you by and bye, 
Or else the devil's in it. 



BURNS 9 £OEMS» 199 

EXTEMPORE, 

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S PO0KE2 BOOK* 

Grant me indulgent Heaven, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things that were* 

LINES 

ON MISS SCOTT, OP AYR. 

Oh ! had each Scott of anoient times, 
Been, Jeany Soott, as thou art, 
The bravest heart on English ground. 
Had yielded like a coward. 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, 

KCT. EOT. 

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER, 

Herb souter Will in death does sleep, 
To h— -11, if he's gane thither, 

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 
He'll haud it weel thegither. 

ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes, 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a blethering b— k 

Into tby.darkdominion S 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 



HIO JACET WEE JOHNNY. 

Whoe'er thou art, reader know, 
That death has murdered Johnny ! 

And here his body lies fu* low 
For saul he ne'er had ony. 



ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 
O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious reverence and attend, 
Here lies the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the generous friend : 
The pitying heart that felt for human wo ! 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ! 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe, 

• For e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 



ON ROBERT AIKEN, Esq. 
Know thou, stranger to the fame 
Of this much- loved, much honour'd na me 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



ON GAYIN HAMILTON, Esq. 
The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps. 

Whom canting wretches blam'd, 
But with such as he, where'er he be. 

May I be sav'd or d— d I 



BUftNS' POEMS, 201 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near. 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 
Is there a bard of rustic song, 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
That weekly this area throng ? 

0, pass not by ! 
1 But, with a fr at er- feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 
Is there a man, whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career \ 

"Wild as the wave. 
, Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 
The poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 
Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars Fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control 

Is Wisdom's root. 



- 



202 simus* 2OEM0. 

ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPER, MAUOHLINK, 

Herb lies Johnny PidgeoD, 
What was his religion? 

Wha e'er desire to ken, 
To some ither warl* 
Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane 2 

Strang yill was ablution— 
Sma' beer, persecution, 

A dram was memento moH / 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 

ON A FKIEND. 

An honest man lies here at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 
Few hearts like his with virtue warm'd; 
Few hearts with knowledge so inform'd: 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this, 

ON A WAG IN MATJCHLINE. 

Lament him ! Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye; 
For had ye staid whole years awa', 

Tour wives they ne'er bad miga'd ye. 



BURNS* BOEM0. 203 

Ye Mauchline bairns as on ye press 

To school, in bands, tbegither ; 
O tread ye lightly on his grass,— 

Perhaps he was your father. 



THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 

CaBS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to a tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will, but by her high permission, 
Who has not sixpence, but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain-lecture worse than hell ! 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ! 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b— -h, 



GRACE BEFORE DINNER, 

0. thou , who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want, 
To bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And if it please thee, Heavenly guide, 

May never worse be sent : 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord bless us with content. 

Amen, 



204 BURNS* POEH& 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 

Hecitativo, 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or wavering, like the bauckie bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstones drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite,. 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night, at e'en a merry core, 

0' randie gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the spore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang : 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel-braced wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blanket warm, 

She blinket on her sodger; 
And aye he gies the tozie drab 

The tither skelping kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab* 

Just like an awmis dish : 



BURNS' POEMS. 205 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup, 
Then staggering and swaggering, 

He roared this ditty up— 

AIR. 

Tune— Soldier's Joy. 
I AM a son of Mars, who have been in many 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench. 
While welcoming the French at the sound of 
the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

My 'prenticeship I pass'd where my leader 

breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights o' 

Abram, 
I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum? 

Lai de daudle, &c. 
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batteries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb,' 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

lead me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the 

drum. 

Lai de daudle, kc. 

And now, though I must beg, with a wooden 
arm and leg, 

Ana many a tatter^ m hanging over my fcum 3 



206 BURKS' POEMS. 

I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my 

callet, 
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum, 

Lai de dauble, &c. 
What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the 

winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a 

home ; 
When the t'other hag I sell, and the t'other 

bottle tell, 
I cou'd meet a troop of h— 11, at the sound of 

the drum, 

Lai de daudle, kc 3 

SECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars aheuk 

Aboon the chorus' roar ; 
While frighted rattens backwar4 louk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out ' Encore !' 
But up arose the martial chuck. 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Titne — Soldier Laddie. 
I onoe was a maid, tho* I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddiej 
Ko wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, lal de lal, &e. 
3?he first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Swaeportei I was with my sodger laddie. 
-Jiog»W4tbl<&c# 



BUHNS' POBH& 207 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
So the sword he forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventured the soul, and I risk'd the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie, 
Sing, lal de lal, &c. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the iife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie, 

Sing, lal de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair, 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, lal de lal, &c. 

And now I have lived — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the 

glass steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie* 
Sing, lal de lal, &c. 

REeiTATXVO. 

Poor merry Andrew, in the neuk, 
Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie, 

They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, 
Between themselves they were sae busy. 

At length wi' drink and courting dizzy, 
He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 

Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy ; 
Syne tun'd his pipes wi grave grimace? 



208 BURNS 5 POEM9. 

AIR. 

TtrNE— Auld Sir Simon, 
Sia Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 
He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 

But I am a fool by profession. 
My grannie she bought me a beuk, 

And I held awa to the school ; 
I fear I my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool 1 
For drink I wad venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect, 

Of ane that's avowedly daft % 
I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 

For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 
I ance was abused i' the kirk, 

For touzling a lass i' my damn. 
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 

Let naebody name wi' a jeer : 
There's even, I'm tauld, i' the Court, 

A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 
Observ'd ye, yon rever'nd lad 

Mak's faces to tickle the mob : 
He rails at our mountebank squad ; 

It's rivalship just i' the job. 
And now my conclusion I'll tell, 

For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 
The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 

Gude L— d ! is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then neist out spak a raucle carlin^ 
Wta feeat ftf weel to cleefc the Sterling, 



BURNS' POEMS* 20$ 

For monie a pursie she had hook'd, 
And had in monie a well been duckit ; 
Her love had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waeful woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 

AIR. 

Tune — 0, an 9 you were dead, Gudemcm. 
A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ! 
But still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

0H9RUS. 

Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian* 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

Wi* his philibeg an* tartar plaid, 
And gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a* from Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared nane, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 
They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But, ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman, 

Sing, hey, &C, 
9 



18 Buana 9 poems. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last; 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hung my braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 
And now a widow, I must mourn, 
The pleasure that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman, 

BECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin' limbs and gaucy middle, 

(He reach'd nae higher,) 
Had hoFd his heartie like a riddle, 
And blawn't on lire. 
Wi ? hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one two, three, 
Then in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo, 
Set aff, wi' Allegretto glee, 
His giga solo. 

AIR. 

Tcne.— Whistle o*er the Lave o't. 
Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi* me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o% 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
l fffW wMrtte Q'er th9 l&ye q% 



BVRH6' POEMS, 211 

At kirks an J weddings, we'se be there, 
An', oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddy Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &o. 

Sae merrily the bane 9 s we'll pyke, 
An* sun oursels about the dyke, 
An* at our leisure, when ye like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't* 
I am, &c . 

But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms, 
An* while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, an' a' sick harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

KECTTATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, 

As weel as poor gut-scraper ; 
He takes the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver — 
Unless he wad, from that time forth, 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastlie e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
An' pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

An' sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve, 

When round the tinkler press'd her | 
He feign'd to smirtle in his sleeve, 

JVhen thus the mxi addreas'd her ;*■* 



212 SfftSS' POBUS. 

AIR. 

Tone.— Clout the Caudron. 
My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've traveli'd round all Christian ground, 

In this my occupation. 
I've ta'en the gold, and been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
In vain they search'd, when off I marched 

To go and clout the caudron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 
Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caperin'; 
An' tak' a share, wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron. 
An' by my stoup, my faith an' houp, 

An' by that dear Kilbagie, 
If e'er ye want or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, &c. 

REGIT ATI VO. 

The caird prevail'd— th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love, o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wiah'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 
But urchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie, 



BUBNS' P0BM3. 213 

Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 
0* boot that night. 

He was a care- defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever misa'd it. 
He had nae wish, but— to be glad, 

Nor want— but when he thirsted : 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the muse suggested 
His sang that night. 



Tune — For a' that and a* that. 

I am a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentle folks an' a' that : 

But Homer- like, the glowran byke 

Frae town to town I draw that. 

i 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that ; 

And twice as muckle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife eneugh for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn an' a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that' &c. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave an' a' that ; 



£14 BITBHS* SOEltS. 

But lordly will, I hold it still 

A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &o. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; 
But for how lang the flee may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 
For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and ' Here's the sex ;' 
„ I like the jads for a' that. 

« CHORUS. 

For 2k that an' a' that ; 

An' twice as muckle as a* that,' 
My dearest bluid to do them guid, 

They're welcome till't for a' that, 

REOITATXVO. 

So sung the bard— and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 
To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then ower again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack, and wale a sang. 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He, rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



B3&K&' ?OBH£. SIS 

AIR. 

Tcsfi— Jolly mortals, Jill your Glasses* 

Sbb the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 
Bound and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing. 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast I 
Courts for cowards were erected, j 

Churches built to please the priest; 

What is title I what is treasure? 

What is reputation's eare 1 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

? Tis no matter how or where ! 
A fig, &c. 

With the ready trick and fable, 

Kound we wander all the day ; 
And at night, in barn or stable, 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 
6 A fig, fco. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c. 

Life is all a variorum, , 

We regard not how it goes; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A te, fco. 



wm 



81$ BURNS' POEMS. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 
A fig, &c. 



THE KIGS O' BARLEY. 

Il was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa' to Annie : 
The' time flew by, wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early ; 
Wi* sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me thro' the barley. 
The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly : 
I set her down wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley; 
I ken't her hear was a* my ain ; 

I lov*d her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely ! 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 

But by the moon and stars sae bright, 
That shone that hour sae clearly, 

She aye shall bless that happy night, 
Amang the rigs o' barley, 

I hae been blythe wi* comrades dear, 
I hae been merry drinking ,* 



SUBHS' £OEMg|. 217 

I hae been joy fu' gath'rin' gear ; 
I hae been happy thinkin' : 

But a* the pleasures e'er I saw, 
Though three times doubl'd fairly, 

That happy night was worth them a', 
Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, 
■* An* corn rigs are bonnie : 
I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

Green grow the rashes, O ; 

Green grow the rashes, O; 
The sweetest hours that ere I spend, 
Are spent amang the lasses, O. 
There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 

In every hour that passes, O : 
What signifies the life o' man, 
An* 'twere na for the lasses, 0. 

Green grow, &c. 
The warl'y race may riches chase, 

And riches still may fly them, ; 
An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O ; 
Green grow, &c. 
But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O, 
And warl'ly cares, and warPly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie^O ! 

£ Green grow, &c. 



218 spans' ?osiis. 

For you sae donee, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, ; 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw> 
He dearly lo'ed the lasses, 0, 

Green groWj &e. 

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, ; 

Her 'prentice nan* she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses, O. 

Green grow, &c. 

SO KG. 

Tune— Johnny's Grey Breeds, 

Again rejoicing Nature sees 
Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie dote, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 

For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, 
And it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me the glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing* 

And maun I still, &c. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
I Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ! 
But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, &c* 



The wanton coot the water skims, 

Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 
The stately swan majestic swims, 

And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun I still, &e. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 

And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, 
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 

I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, &c. 
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 

Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 
And mounts and sings, on fluttering wings, 

A wae-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

And maun I still, &c. 
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree; J 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 

When Nature all is sad like me ! 

And maun I still, && 



SONG. 
TxjXR—Gilderoy. 
From thee Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore : 
The cruel Fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar ; 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee 
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 

The maid that I adore I 



■ 



220 BURNS* P0EM& 

A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh ! 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune. — Katharine Ogie. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfaulds her robes, 

And there the langest tarry : 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my Bweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk ! 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel-wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie, 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower so early ! — 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 



BURNS* POEMS. 221 

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly — 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary ? 



^AULD ROBIN MORRIS. 
! There's auld RobMorris that wons in yon glen, 
: He's the king o* guid fellows and wale of auld men ; 
He has go w d in his coffers, he has o wsen and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as lambs on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But oh ! she's an heiress, — auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddy has nought but a cot-house & yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed ; 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes tome, but delight brings menane; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast* 

had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! 
O, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express J 



BtfRNS 5 POHKS. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gbay cam' here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blithe yule- night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, 
Look'd aaklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd, 

Ha, ha, &c. ; 
Meg was deaf was Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and Win', 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c; 
Blighfced love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die % 
She may go to — France for me S 

Ha, ha, &c. 
How it comes let doctors tell ; 

Ha, ha, &c. ; 
Meg grew sick as he grew hale ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
Aad 0, her een, they spak sic things? | 

Ha, ha, &c. 



J 



BTJBSa 5 POE*£0. 2^ 

Duncan was a lad o' grace ; 

Ha, ha, &c ; 
Maggie's was a piteous case ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace or pleasure .° 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 

T0SJI— Eey, lonnie.Lass, will ye lie in a Barra&f 

O kbh ye what Meg o* the Mill has gotten ? 
An' Jsen ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten f 



(■ 



224 SUBftS' POEMS. 

She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl : — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ! 
The laird did address her wi' matter more 

moving, 
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear- chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen ! 
A tocher's nae word on a true-lover's parle, 
But gi'e me my love, and a fig for the warP I 

SONG. 

TUNE — Logan Water. - 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ! 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun, 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers ; 

Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 

Anfl evening's tears are tears of)' oy; 



burns' poems. 225 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk- white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile. 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Kae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O, wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 



THE LEA RIG. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, 
And ousen frae the furrow'd field 

Return sae dowf and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo; 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 
My ain kind dearie, O ; 
p 



226 burns' pobms, 

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild. 

And I were ne'er sae weary, 0, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloaming grey, 

It maks my heart sae cheery 0, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa name ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou brings't me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauldat our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e ; 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers ! 

How your dread howling a lover alarms i 
Waukin, ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh ! if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! 



BtlRNS* POEMS, 227 

WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU MY 

LAB. 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad; 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' faither and mither and a' should gad mad* 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when ye come to court me. 
And come na unless the back-yet be a jee ; 
Syne up the back- stile, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na coram* to me, 

O whistle, &c. 
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flee 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na lookin* at me, 

O whistle, &c. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, tho* jokin' ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, 
O whistle, &c. 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mini 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And days o' lang syne ? 

CHOKUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne, 



%28 BURNS' POEMS, 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae morning sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &e. 



BANNOCKBTJKN. 

BOBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victor ie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 



BTJKNV POEMS. 2$9 

Wha will be a traitor knave 1 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave 1 

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 
Wha for Scotland's king and law, 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa', 

Sodger ! hero ! on wi me. 
By Oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains J 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall, they shall be free ! 
Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 

Forward ! let us do, or die ! 

SHE SAYS SHE LOE'S ME BEST OF A\ 

Tune— OnagVs Water-fall. 
Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling, sae wyling, 

Wad mak a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto those rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 
Her pretty ancle is a spy, 



230 burns' poems. 

Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad mak a saint forget the sky, 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air : 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Her's are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my (Moris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a*. 
Let others love the city. 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair. beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang ; 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

To say thou lo'est me best of a' ? 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT, 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a* that J 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a* that t 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a* that, 
The rank is but the guinea-stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a* that ! 
What tho* on namely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that ; 



SURNS' POEMS. 231 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man, for a that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 

Is Sing o' men for a' that ! 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd— a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that ; 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that i 

A king can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he maunna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that — 
When sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

Shall bear the gree, and a that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's comin' yet, for a' that, 
"When man and man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



BURNS' poems. 



SONG. 

Tune. — Let me in this ae night, 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet ! 
Or art thou wakin' I would wit ? 
For love has bound me, hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo ! 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro* the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, &c. 
The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The caldness o' thy heart's the cause 

Of a* my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in, &c. 



HER ANSWER. 
O tell na me o* wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Qae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

CH0EU3. 

I tell you now this ae night, 
This ae, ae, ae night : 



burns' poems. 238 

And ance for a' this ae night, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer, pours, 
Its nocht to what poor she endures, 
That* trusted faithless man, jo, 
I tell you now, &c. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 
I tell you now, &. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 



HEY FOR A LASS WF A TOCHER. 
Tune. — Balinamona ora. 
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel stockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher ; 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, 
The nice yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 
blows, 

And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 



234 burns"' poems. 

But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 
knowe3, 

Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 
yowes, 
Then hey, &c, 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest ; 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 
prest, 

The longer ye hae them— the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, &c. 

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

CHORUS. 

Bonkib lassie, will ye go, 
"Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
To the birks of Aberfeldy 1 

How simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come, let us spend the lightsome days 

In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blithely sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 

In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 
The braes ascend like lofty wa's 
The foaming stream deep roaring falls 
O'erhung wi 9 fragrant spreading shaws, 

The birks o' Aberfeldy, 
Bonnie lassie, &c« 



burns' poems* 235 j 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish fra me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 



Blithe, blithe, and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and ben ; 

Blithe by the banks of Ern, 
And blithe in Glenturit glen. 

By Auchtertyre grows the aik, 
On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn, 

She tripp'd by the banks of Ern 
As 'lights a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, &c. 

Her bonny face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er so sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee, 
Blithe, &c. 



256 BURKS' POEMS. 

The Highland hills I've wandered wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, &c. 



Tune. — My Lodging is on the cold Ground* 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair ; 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha'; 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn * 

The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo ; 

The courtier tells a finer tale, — 
But is his heart as true? 

These wild wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtiers' gems may witness love- 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



BURNS' POEMS. 237 

OF 'A THE AIRTS. 
Tune— Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey, 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild* woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. 

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to see; 

Three blither hearts, that lee lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

Chorus. 
We are na fou, we're na that fou, 

But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw, 

And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 



288 BURNS* POBM& 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 

Three merry boys, I trow, are we : 
And mony a night we've merry been, 

And mony mae we hope to be t 
We are na fou, &e, 
It is the moon — 1 ken her horn, 

That's blinking in the lift sae hie; 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 

But by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
We are na fou, &c, 
Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang us three \ 
We are na fou, &e. 



TAM GLENo 

Mr heart is a breaking, dear Tittie I 

Some council unto me comejlen', 
To anger them a' is a pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? 
I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow, 

In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 
What care I in riches to wallow, 

If I maun marry Tarn Glen % 
There's Lowrie the laird o' Drumeller, 

' Gude day to you, brute/ he comes ben ; 
He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

Bt when will he dance like Tarn Glen 1 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter she says to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ? 






burns' poems. 239 

My daddy says, gin I'll forsake him, 

He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten ; 
But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, 

O wha will I get but Tarn Glen ? 
Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 

My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 
For thrice I drew ane without failing, 

And thrice it was written— Tarn Glen. 
The last Halloween I lay waukin 

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken : 
His likeness came up the house staukin, 

And the very grey breeks o' Tarn Glen ! 
Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry— 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen, 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WF 

AN AULD MAN. 
What can a young lassie, what shall a young 



What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? 
Bad luck to the pennie that tempted my minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' I 
Bad luck on the pennie, &c. 
He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin, I 

He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 
He's doylt, and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 

0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 
0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 



240 BURNS' POEMd. 

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity, 
111 do my endeavour to follow her plan ! 

I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 

O, FOR ANE-AN-TWENTY, TAM I 

Tune— The MoudieioorU 

CHORUS. 

An' O for ane-and-twenty, Tarn ! 

An* hey, sweet ane-an-twenty, Tarn ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 

An' I saw ane-an-twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 

And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn ; 
But three short years will soon wheel roun', — 

An' then comes ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 
An' O, for ane, &c. 
A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 

Was left me by my auntie, Tarn ; 
At kith or kin I need na spier, 

An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 
An' O, for ane, &c. 
They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho* I myseF hae plenty, Tnm ; 
But hear'st thou laddie — there's my loof, 

I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 
An' O, for ane, &c, 



THE BANKS 0' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 



B0BNS' POEMS. 241 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro* the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o» departed joys, 

Departed — never to return ! 
Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its love, 
' And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon iis thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 
Willie Wastle dwelt on Tweed, 

The spot they ca'd it Linkum-doddie, 
Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie ; 
He had a wife was dour and din, 

Tinkler Maidgie was her mither ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

1 wad nae gie a button for her. 
She has an e'e— -she has but ane, 

The cat has twa the very colour ; 
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller : 
A whiskin 1 beard about her mou, 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, &c. 
She's bow-hough'd, she's hem-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 
Q 



242 burns' poems. 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther— 
Sic a wife, &e. 
Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

An 5 wi' her loof her face awashin ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi 5 a hushion, 
Her walie nieves like midden- creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 
By the treasure of my soul, 
That's the love I bear thee ! 

1 swear and vow, that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'us me, 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Sa na thou'lt refuse me ; 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine, may choose me; 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'est me, 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



burns' poems. 243 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang : 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear ; 
But woman is but warld's gear ; 

Sae let the bonnie lassie gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
ETae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind. 
O woman, lovely woman fair ! 
An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair— ■ 

I mean an angel mind. 

THE RED, RED ROSE. 

0, my love's like a red, red rose, 

That's newly sprung in June ; 
O, my love's like the melodie 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I ; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 

I will luve thee still my dear, 
While the saiops q' life shall nra, 



. 



244 burns' poems. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a- while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



SONG. OF DEATH. 

Scene — a field of battle ; time of the day— evening, the 
wounded and dying of the victorious army are sup- 
posed to join in the following Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies ! 
Now gay wi' the broad setting sun ! 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties ! 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ! 

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant— he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
our hands, 

Our king and our country to save— 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

Oh ! who would not die with the brave ! 



BORNS* POEMS. 245 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

Thou lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest 1 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid 1 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love 1 
Eternity will not efface, 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our la4 embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'tv^as our last. 
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene ; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray — 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mern'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but th' impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 



246 BTTBKS' POEMS; 



NAEBODY. 

I sab a wife o' my ain— ■ 
I'll partake wi' naebody ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody, 

I hae a penny to spend, 
There — thanks to naebody, 

I hae naething to lend— 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's l^pji— 
I'll be slave to naebody ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae naebody, 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for naebody : 

If naebody care for me, 
I'll care for naebody. 

TO MAKY. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ] 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th* Atlantic's roar 1 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true | 

And sae may the Heavens forget me,; 
When I forget my vow J 



burns' poems. 247 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand | 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

Wehae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ; 

The hour, and the moment o' time ! 

BONNIE LESLEY. 
SAW ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border % 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 

And love but her for ever : 
For Nature made her what she is, 

And ne'er made sic anither t 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, f I canna wrang thee.' 

The powers aboon will tent thee, 
Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 

Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 
Return to Caledonie I 



248 BffftNS' POEMS. 

That we may brag we hae a lass 
There's nane again sae bonnie. 



BONNIE JEAN. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a* the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sang sae merrilie : 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the bra west lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen : 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
And wanton naigies, nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 

He danc'd wi* Jeanie on the down ; 
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was sfcown. 
As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 
So trembling, pure, was tender love, 

Within the breast of bonnie Jean. 
Aud now she works her mammie's wark, 

And aye she sighs wi* care and pain ; 
Yet wist na what her ail might be. 

Or what wad make her weel again. 



Bt7RN8' POBMS. 249 

Bat did na .3 eanie's heart; loup light, 

And did na joy blink in her e'e, 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 

At e'ening on the lily lea ? 
The sun was sinking in the west, 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
His cheek to her's he fondly prest, 

And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 
' Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi* me ? 
' At barn or byre thou shalt na, drudge, 

Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather bells, 

And tent the waving corn wi' me.' 
Now what could artless Jeanie do? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between the twa, 

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
Tctne — InvercauWs Reel. 

CHOKUS. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 

Ye wad na been sae shy ; 
For laik o' gear ye lightly me, 
But, trowth, I care na by. 
Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I, 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



BVBMS' P0BM& 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, * 
Whene'er ye like to try. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho* his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean, 
Tiat looks sae proud and high, 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smarts 

If that he want the yellow dirt, 

Ye'll cast your head anither airt. 

And answer him fu* dry. 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o* gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
Be better than the kye. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice ; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wad nae gie her in her sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousan' mark ! 
Ye need na look sae high. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



BURNS' POEMS, 201 

FA1E JENNY. 

TtfHE — Saw ye my father. 
Where are the joys I have met in the morning. 

That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 

At ev'ning the wild woods among ? 
No more a- winding the course of yon river, 

And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ; 
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 

But sorrow and sad sighing care. 
Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near 1 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 
Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, 

Yet long, long too well have I known ; 
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom 

Is Jenny, fair Jenny, alone. 
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow ; 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo. 



JOHN ANDERSON. 
Johh Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent ; 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



2*52 BURNS' POEMS. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clam the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go ; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



A ROSE BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

Tune. — The Rose-hud. 

A Rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

All on a dswy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair ! 
On trembling string, or voeal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning, 



burns' poems. 213 

So thou sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 



THE JOYFUL WJDOWEK. 

Tune. — Maggy Lander* 

I married with a scolding wife, 

The fourteenth of November ; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. . 

Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one-and-twenty years, 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she steer'd, 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her, 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her. 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why, — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



254 burrs' pobms, 



FAIR ELIZA. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart] 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Tinder friendship's kind disguise 1 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended 1 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thee would gladly die \ 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou ehalt mix an ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon } 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE PARTING KISS. 
Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 

O'er the mountains he is gane ; 
And with him is a* my bliss, 

Naught but griefs with me remain, 



BURKS* POEMS, 255 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 
When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves, 

Fondly he'll repeat her name : 
For where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is still at name. 



LORD GREGORY. 
mire, mirk is the midnight hour, 

And loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r— » 

Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwin-side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied 1 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart, itseP sae true. 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 
And flinty is thy breast— 



256 burns' poems. 

Thou dart of heaven that flashes by, 
O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



CLAEIISTDA. 

Claris da, mistres of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cate of frozen night 
Shall poor Sylvander hie ; — 

Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 
The sun of all his joy? 

We part — but, by these precious drop? 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Hast blest my glorious day ; 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray? 



FIXIS. 



J. S. Pratt, PrioUr^Stokesley, Yorkshire, 



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